


The Saga of Quigon and Obiwan

by wolfiefics



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Anakin's just a kid, F/M, I grew up with Norwegian Elkhounds, I mean it is Star Wars as a historical, I'm a cat person but I liked Mom's choice in dog breeds, M/M, Obi-Wan is a thrall/slave, Shmi is a mystic, Viking AU, all of them in this story are past family dogs, everyone is free eventually, happily ever after into the sunset guaranteed, loose use of names as Norseman cultural, main pairing is qui/obi, no threesomes, off-screen with them, so very familiar with the breed, somewhat historically accurate?, the qui/shmi is an arranged marriage, there is no Chosen One here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfiefics/pseuds/wolfiefics
Summary: Viking warrior Quigon Jinn captures Ben Kenobi in battle, taking him as a personal slave. Jinn wins over, and seduces, Ben but others seek to infer in their relationship. Jinn is forced to marry the widow Shmi and take on her son Anakinn. When their village is attacked, Kenobi, now called Obiwan, defends his lover’s new family, almost dying in the process. The two pairs become a tight familial foursome, but societal dictates and rumors threaten to break them apart.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Shmi Skywalker
Comments: 87
Kudos: 88
Collections: Backwards QuiObi Bang





	1. When men meet foes in fight, better is stout heart than sharp sword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MidnightDelirium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightDelirium/gifts).



> I saw the art for the Qui-Obi Reverse Big Bang of Viking Qui-Gon and knew this was my opportunity to write a Viking romance. Plus, RESEARCH! My favorite thing, research. Warms the cockles of my heart. It’s not entirely historically accurate but it’ll do, it’ll do. Liberties were taken, especially with names and the ending. But hey, it’s historical fantasy, not academic publication! P.S. I’m using modern weather/climate conditions for Scotland, mainly because I don’t have the time, or inclination, to dumpster dive looking for references to Scottish weather in the 10th century. If such things even exist. What am I saying? Of course they do. Somewhere. I’m also using the impression that since this is pre-Little Ice Age, temperatures were probably not that much different anyway.
> 
> I kept some Star Wars names, amended them where appropriate for cultural purposes, but otherwise, just assume they are all correct and period for where ever the characters are from. Okay? Okay.
> 
> Many thanks to Midnight for her GORGEOUS artwork. I heart it.
> 
> Chapter Titles are quotes from Viking (Icelandic) Sagas, as well as a few other places when I could find something Norse appropriate. Also, this work uses specific skin to update Chapter Headers with Prologue and Epilogue. (I hope?)

Mace Ibn-Windu had heard these wild men from the north were insane, tough, and near-impossible to defeat but he'd brushed the rumor off as exaggeration. Now, the heavy smoke clogging his lungs, his throat raw from screaming orders or battle cries, and the darkness of night lit only by burning homes, Mace knew the rumors were not embellishment. These Norsemen were all that and more.

He swung his scimitar up in a block and gutted his overeager opponent, a young man that didn't look old enough to grow fuzz on his face, with his knife. There was a fearsome bellow behind him and he turned around to meet the new threat. What his eyes beheld made him take two involuntary steps back, tamping down a swell of dismay.

A demon was coming at him, brown hair in braids and possibly knots, eyes fierce, teeth bared in a snarl of rage, and brandishing the biggest sword Mace had ever seen. The Norseman moving to him with long strides was the largest man he'd ever seen, so it stood to reason the barbarian would have a sword to match.

Metal clanged as scimitar met longsword. Mace felt the Norseman's blow deep in his bones, it was so powerful. Strike after strike, Mace parried, tried to find an advantage, and failed. By Allah, a man that huge shouldn't move with such grace and surety. It reinforced Mace's first impression that his opponent was otherworldly.

Mace miscalculated and his scimitar went flying. He backed up quickly to get out of the reach of the giant he faced but a shout of foreign words halted the deathblow he was sure was coming. The big man leveled his weapon and spoke in broken Arabic.

"Yield and live."

Mace knew what that meant. The rumors also said these Northmen sold prisoners as slaves. Mace tightened his jaw. He was Mace Ibn-Windu. His family was old, powerful, and revered. He would die before living in the ignominy of slavery.

Before he could goad the big man into killing him, the wild man spoke again. "Your chief surrenders. No dishonor. You fight well."

There, in the deep ocean blue eyes, was respect. Mace hesitated, took a deep breath, and prayed to Allah that his gut feeling that he would be treated honorably was true. He gave a nod, stepped forward, and reached out a hand. He wrist was encircled by a massive hand in return. A warrior's grip, one to another in respect.

The grip released and Mace watched in apprehensive wonder as the Norseman walked to his scimitar, picked it up, hefted it expertly, and then tossed it at Mace. Mace caught it. The Norseman nodded for Mace to go first, so he did, an itch between his shoulder blades to have such a dangerous, unpredictable man behind him.

By evening there was a council in place, negotiations in getting these raiders from the North to leave. Mace's opponent was obviously as well-respected among his people as Mace was with his own. Mace couldn't catch a name, though.

Ransoms were paid. Mace was considered his opponent’s prisoner, so Mace offered his own payment price of gold, gems, and exotic furs from animals from inland Africa. The big man was fascinated by the cheetah and zebra skins and being offered two each dropped the gold requirements significantly.

Which gave Mace an idea. His family dealt in stones, precious and semi-precious. Mace had several he carried with him always, found on his many travels, that reverberated with him. They were lucky, though Mace should know better to be so superstitious. These pagan savages would likely fall for such things as well.

Mace decided he would try.

He stood and worked his way to the Vikings’ side of the council fire. Talk ceased and eyes watched him. He came before his wild man captor, who arched an inquiring eyebrow. Mace slowly pulled off his belt pouch that contained his lucky stones and held it out.

"Lucky," he said, hoping the other would understand.

There was a twitch of lips under the thick mustache and beard, but the big man took the pouch with appropriate reverence. He opened the pouch and upended the contents into his huge hand.

Blue eyes went wide and a bit glazed. Mace wasn't sure the other actually saw what he'd revealed. The Norseman seemed to almost be in a trance. Mace waited for the verdict.

The minutes dragged by. A long forefinger nudged through the various colored rocks in an absent fashion. A chipped green one, malachite, was plucked out, as well as a foggy moon crystal, both worthless except for their prettiness. Two other stones, an emerald and a ruby, uncut and flawed, joined the other two on the big man's linen-clad knee. The rest of the stones were tumbled back into the pouch and handed back to Mace.

"He is free," the big man rumbled. "Ransom paid." There was some grumbling from his cohorts but none outright argued. The Norseman scooted over on his bench and pulled Mace unceremoniously down next to him. Negotiations resumed for the rest of his people and Mace waited for what else could be coming.

"Mace Ibn-Windu," the Norseman rumbled almost thoughtfully. "Warrior. Leader. Wise."

As this sounded complimentary, Mace inclined his head. "I do not know your name, fierce warrior," he noted.

Again that quirk of the mouth. "Quigon Yanson." The second name seemed distasteful, as it was spat out rather than spoken.

Mace racked his brains for what he'd heard of Norsemen and their naming conventions. Like the Arabs, a man’s second name was ‘son of’ appended with your father’s name. "You do not like your father?" he hesitantly ventured.

Quigon gave a foul grunt in response.

"Then let me, warrior to warrior, leader to leader, give you a new name." The big man eyed him in askance. "Jinn."

An eyebrow rose and the word was repeated. "Jinn."

Mace gave a rueful smile. "They are otherworldly spirits, sometimes demons, sometimes allies. As you are to me now."

The words didn't translate so a nearby translator was employed to explain. Quigon's eyes lit up, cobalt even in the firelit darkness.

"Quigon Jinn," he said with a nod. "Accepted. We are friends." The Norseman then hammered Mace on the back cheerfully with a mighty palm and the two watched the rest of the bartering for ransoms of Mace's people.

'These barbarians aren't half-bad," Mace thought to himself as he watched the whole lot of them begin to head for their dragon-looking ships five days later. He and Quigon had become somewhat friends, learning from each other, both as warriors and men.

In a way, Mace thought sadly, he was going to miss the big brute. He held a hand up in farewell at Quigon’s own wave and, eventually, the long dragon ships faded into the distance.

* * *

Ben Kenobi was unceremoniously stuffed in the cellar and its heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him. His older brother, Owen, had said nothing, merely grabbed him, shoved him into the pit, and enclosed him in darkness. Ben hadn’t even had time to see who was attacking. Norsemen? Picts? A tribe that had a grudge against his own?

The sounds of fighting, and dying, was a loud din even underground and Ben pressed his hands against his ears to drown out the noise. He whimpered when the fighting drew close, clamping his hands tight over his mouth instead to stifle the sound. No one could know he was hiding. Ma would say so. Those who found him would take Ben away and make him work for them as a slave until he died.

Time passed. He didn’t know how long. The above ground was still full of noise, but this time filled with cries of pain, harsh sounding words Ben couldn’t make out, and the occasional bang of metal or wood.

Then came the sound that made him cry out despite all the admonitions Ma and Owen gave him to be quiet. The whoosh of fire. Through the cracks in the wooden door over his head, he could see the telltale flicker of orange and yellow. The flames were all the more brighter as night was falling.

Ben panicked. His cellar was right by the family’s cottage. If the cottage was on fire, it would collapse on him and burn him too. He rose to his skinny, shaky legs, climbed up the short ladder, and beat his fists against the wooden door over his head, screaming and crying for help. It no longer mattered that it was likely only the enemy outside now. Ben was alone, frightened, and didn’t want to burn to death.

The door flipped open and hands reached in to pull him out. Ben saw their woad painted faces and screamed in terror. Picts! They were supposed to be allies now, Owen said. Why…?

“Lookit here,” said the one holding Ben, balancing him on a leather-clad hip. The blue-painted man brushed a snarl of Ben’s hair away from his tear-stained face. Ben tried to squirm away but was held fast. “Stop moving!” came the gruff order and, fearful, Ben complied.

The man turned away from Ben’s burning home and almost immediately Ben’s eyes fell on Ma. Or at least, he thought it was Ma. It looked like her dress, but there wasn’t much left of her face. He whimpered and crushed the palms of his hands into his eyes so hard that he saw spots swimming in the darkness.

His captor walked away from Ben’s burning home, talking rapidly. “I found a live one. Young, might be good when he grows up some. Doesn’t look ill or deformed.”

A hand gripped the back of Ben’s head, fist tight in his hair, and jerked his head around. The movement dislodged his hands from his eyes and Ben blinked blearily at who surrounded him.

Not all the warriors were woad painted. All were huge to Ben’s mind, though. Big and mean and fierce and they were going to kill him like they did Ma. Ben gave another cry and attempt to squirm out of the tight grasp holding him, but failed.

“Shush, laddie,” snapped the one gripping his hair. Brown eyes swept over him and the man’s other hand felt his body. “You’re right. Kinda scrawny, but he’ll eat more than five men by the time he’s thirteen, I’d reckon.”

The man holding his hair lost interest in him, let go, and walked away, bellowing orders to gather their spoils and mount up. The man holding Ben tilted his little head so they faced each other and asked in a kinder, softer voice than any of them used before, “What’s your name, laddie?”

Ben hiccupped, eyes wide, wondering if he dare defy this man and not say. “Ben,” he sniffled. “Ben Kenobi.”

“And, Ben Kenobi, how many years have you?” His captor brushed tears from his cheeks gently.

Ben chewed on his bottom lip nervously before admitting, “I’ve six summers now.”

The man’s face fell and he looked around at the carnage regretfully. “I’m sorry, lad,” the man finally said. “You’ll be coming with me. I promise, though, I’ll treat you right. No one will hurt you.”

Then, to Ben’s amazement, the man leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll teach you to fight so that what happened here won’t happen to you ever again. My word of honor.”

Ben was skeptical but nodded politely. He belonged to this man now. He was his prisoner. Ben had to do whatever this man said. “What’s your name?” he asked in his frightened, little-boy voice.

The man’s hair was matted into long, tangled locks and they moved like creatures separate from him when he gave Ben a smile and tipped his head to one side consideringly. “Kit Fisto, my lad. Call me Kit.”

Kit put Ben on his horse and then got up behind the little boy. Soon, all Ben knew and loved was left behind, turning to ash or soon to become the fare of wild animals. Ben said a clumsy prayer in his heart for Ma and Owen and then said another for himself.

‘Please, God,’ he prayed, ‘have Papa help Ma and Owen into Heaven. And let Kit Fisto not make me his slave. I’m a good boy.’

He sniffled himself to sleep.


	2. Only a coward waits to be taken like a lamb from the fold or a fox from a trap

Blood dripped from his sword and his arm was tired, but the village was subdued. Frankly, Quigon was getting too old for this nonsense. He’d planned this to be his last raid. Capture some slaves for sale and his own use then retire to his home on the islands just north of this misbegotten land. A disturbance to his far left caught his attention and he turned.

A young man, sword clutched desperately in hand, was attempting to hold off Sifo Dyas, Quigon’s best friend. Both men looked as exhausted as Quigon but the energies of youth could often give spur to ignoble defeat of their opponent so Quigon stepped in to help.

Sifo slanted him a glance and a grin. “Fiesty, ain’t he?” he sneered good-naturedly.

The youth flushed angrily and gave a surprisingly powerful swipe at Sifo that caught Quigon’s friend on the sword arm. Sifo gave a howl of outrage when he reflexively dropped his sword and only Quigon restraining his friend stopped the bear of a man from going after the Scots boy unarmed.

“You’re outnumbered,” Quigon pointed out congenially to the young man before him. “Give it up or die.” Quigon spoke the Scots language well so he knew the young man would understand him.

The youth tilted his cleft-chin up, barely covered by a beard just growing in, and shot Quigon a mutinous expression. His sword leveled in Quigon’s direction threateningly but Quigon had enough of this nonsense. His long-armed reach allowed him to swipe in, wrap a hand around the youth’s wrist and squeeze without mercy. The sword wavered in the young man’s grip but didn’t drop, no matter how much pressure Quigon put on the bone and muscle in his grip.

Quigon was impressed despite himself. He gave the sword arm he held a brutal shake that caused the boy to drop the sword. He saw but couldn’t dodge in time a foot striking out, kicking right into Quigon’s groin, causing the giant man to double over in reflexive pain. As Quigon gasped a bit of a high-pitched whimper, Sifo snagged the youth before he could escape.

“You favor men,” observed Sifo nonchalantly. “For that little maneuver, I think he belongs to you.”

Quigon managed to straighten up, his balls still smarting and his temper flaring. The young man, wild red-gold hair glinting in the bright afternoon sunlight, had a spark of fear in those green-blue eyes that gave Quigon a small measure of satisfaction.

The lad spoke, his voice deeper than Quigon expected, showing he was older than Quigon imagined. “I’ll not be your catamite!”

Quigon reached out and grabbed the young man by the hair and drug him forward. “You do what I want you to do or what someone else tells you to do. The devil you imagine you know versus the devil you know not at all. Choose.”

Lush lips compressed into a thin line and those fascinating eyes flashed rebellion. His captive’s smell fluttered up into Quigon’s nose: wood smoke, the iron tang of blood, the salt of sweat, and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on that wasn’t from a normal human body. Something mysterious, a hint of sweet.

Quigon adjusted his grip on the young man’s head, large hand wrapping around the base of his neck, and his other arm, sword angled away, yanked the smaller body in close. He angled them both and pressed his lips against his captive’s. He felt the other’s muscles tense in disbelief and shock. He nipped with his teeth at the stubbornly closed mouth before pulling away.

Wide eyes stared up at him. Quigon couldn’t help but smile. “See? Not so bad,” he rumbled. A sneer pulled at the young man’s mouth but Quigon interrupted whatever was about to be said. “I can’t guarantee the French or the Irish will be as gentle,” he arched an eyebrow, “or accommodating.”

He let his prisoner go and looked at Sifo. “I’ll keep him. It will be a nice diversion come winter to seduce him into my bed.”

“Easier to just get it over with,” grumbled Sifo. “Take him, find out if he’s worth the trouble, and if not, you can still get a sale price out of him.”

A tinge of fear entered those expressive eyes and Quigon shook his head. “No.” He ran a dirty forefinger down the youth’s equally filthy cheek. “I like the looks of him. Put him in the keep pile. Sell the rest.”

“What of my current master?” blurted the youth defiantly.

Quigon and Sifo exchanged a glance before Quigon turned his attention back to his new slave. “You’re a slave already?” he asked skeptically. Slaves didn’t normally have weapons, let alone the ability to use them.

“Of a sort,” the young man hedged.

Quigon turned away dismissively. “You are probably the only male over fifteen still alive that isn’t a monk, boy. Consider him dead.”

The wail that erupted from behind him caused Quigon to spin back in surprise. Tears were beginning to streak through the grime on the young man’s face and he was collapsing to his knees, despite Sifo’s grip on him.

Quigon’s brow furrowed. A slave mourning his master?

“For Frigga’s sake, Quigon, take the little bastard,” Sifo spat, tired of the drama. He gave Quigon’s new property a stumbling push and stalked away toward a distant group of screaming women.

Quigon crouched next to the youth, who was heaving in sobs, trying to control himself. Before he could speak, the young man stammered, “He-he was good t-to m-me. They were g-going to k-kill me. He saved me. Trained me. W-was as good a father to me as my o-own would have been.”

Quigon put two and two together and came up with four. He scooped the lithe body up in his arms easily as anything. Did they not feed the lad? He then walked toward his long boat, his fellow warriors watching with interest or derision as he passed them. Once on the rocking boat, boots wet from sloshing through sea water, Quigon sat down, still holding his new slave.

“Your family were killed in the in-fighting between clans these past many years?” he asked softly. A nod brushed his beard. “This man took you in as his own rather than kill you?” Another nod. “How old were you?”

“Six summers,” came a slightly calmer answer.

Quigon closed his eyes. So young, even in his own culture, to have lost everything: home, family and friends.

“I regret your life, young one, and I regret your master’s death. That I could turn back time and change it, I would, but I cannot. We are what we are and we live the life the gods give us.” He tightened his arms around the trembling body he held. “But I make this promise before Thor, Frigga, Odin, and the rest that I will not abuse you, I will not use you, and I will treat as my own as this man did you.”

The reddish-gold head raised just a tiny bit, his skull bumping Quigon’s chin. “You swear before your gods, but will you swear before mine?”

“The god of the Christians?” asked Quigon.

“Yes.”

“Before him and the one the Muslims call Allah, as well, I foreswear it,” Quigon promised.

There was a small amount of relaxation in his prisoner’s body. “I don’t know why, but I believe you,” came the hesitant response.

Quigon couldn’t help a small smile. “Raider, pillager and seller of slaves I may be, young one, but I have my honor and my word is good.” They sat there for long quiet moments. “What is your name?”

There was an audible swallow before the answer was all but whispered, “Ben Kenobi.”

“Ben?” Quigon mused. “Isn’t there a man in the Christian book called Benjamin?”

An element of surprise shadowed Ben’s voice when he answered. “Yes, the last son of Jacob.”

“I am Quigon Jinn.”

“Jinn doesn’t sound very Norseman,” Ben observed, growing brave enough to pull away to stare up at Quigon.’

“That’s because it isn’t,” Quigon replied. “That is a story for another time, not now. Stay on this boat. Do not move unless I tell you to. You try to run, you will be sorry for it.”

A hint of defiance flashed in those moss-colored eyes but Ben nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

Quigon placed his lapful of attractive young man on the bench and stood up. “Which was your cottage?” he asked after a moment’s thought. He would gather some things to ease Ben’s distress.

“It’s ash,” came the bitter answer.

There was nothing more to say to that so Quigon left his long boat back to shore to finish gathering his share of the spoils and slaves. He and his cohorts made plans on where to go to sell the slaves and Quigon entrusted his to Sifo. Quigon had little taste for the greed and callousness of the slave markets and had no head for getting the best bargain anyway.

“Bring my share when you return,” he told his friend, watching in the deep darkness as their men shunted off to the many boats.

Sifo nodded, eyeing Quigon cautiously. “What about the impetuous brat from this afternoon?”

Quigon smiled slightly. “I’ll keep him. I think he and I will eventually rub along well together.”

Sifo shrugged. “It’s your balls that he aims for, not mine. Gods be with you, Quigon. See you soon.” The two friends hugged and Sifo shambled off.

Quigon was back on his boat not long after, his men eyeing Ben curiously but leaving him be. The young man was huddled where Quigon left him and Quigon belatedly realized it was cold on the water, even this close to land.

“Karl, blanket.” A thick wool blanket was tossed his way. He caught it and wrapped Ben in it. From a pack, he rummaged for food, handed Ben some hard, brown bread and dried mutton, and ate some of it himself. The mead was passed around but Ben declined, watching everyone warily in the torch-lit night.

“The dead are buried,” Quigon told him. “We leave in the morning.”

“Where are we going?” Ben asked as if unable to stop himself.

“My home. This was my last raid.”

“And where is your home?”

Quigon stretched out between benches and hauled Ben on top of him. The youth gave an outraged squawk that caused some rumbles of laughter from Quigon’s men. “Just up the coast, in some small islands north of this one you call Albia.”

“Is it cold?”

“Not to me and probably not much colder than you are used to here, Ben. Now shut up and sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” Quigon rolled Ben off him and tucked the smaller body between him and a bench. He drew the blanket over them and was about to go to sleep when something occurred to him.

“You have a knife, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question but Ben answered anyway.

“My eating knife.”

“Use it on me at your peril.”

There was no answer so Quigon went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI. I have two fics going at once for the Backwards event. I'm going to stagger their posting times to every other day each. Eenie-meenie-minie-mo got the Viking story chosen to go first. LOL! Be warned, this is turning into a monster and is not yet completed. This is unusual for me, as I don't like posting in-progress work. But since I am incapable of writing something less than two chapters...LOL! You're going to be as surprised as me at how long it will be. There is a plan and I know how it will end, never fear! It's the journey that's the fun part. But isn't it always?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ben meets Bruck Chun, gets a new name, and reaches his new home.

Ben huddled as far from everyone as he could and kept Quigon in view. It seemed to be accepted among the Norsemen that he belonged to Quigon and no one bothered him but still Ben wasn’t trusting it. The Norse long boats with their peculiar dragon heads left the small inlet where Ben’s village had once been about three days ago, hugging the coastline as they went north.

It was nearing the end of autumn and the further north they went the chillier it got. Ben had never liked the cold, much to Master Kit’s amusement. When winter came it found Ben wrapped in layer upon layer, his pallet heaped with furs and wool blankets. He wasn’t looking forward to how much colder it would be further north.

Grumbling, he buried himself deeper in the wool blanket. It smelled of Quigon, which was oddly comforting, though Ben couldn’t say why. Quigon and his Norse friends killed or took as slaves everyone he knew and destroyed the only home he’d known since he was six years old. That he would trust and crave the regard of the giant brute was a mystery to Ben.

The sails of the boats were full and billowing, no rowers needed. Those who exerted efforts to row the boat were idly chatting, playing dice, or laughing uproariously. Though they looked distracted, all were on alert, Ben could tell.

By mid-afternoon that day the sight of land in any direction couldn’t be seen and Ben grew apprehensive. It looked like open ocean to him but Quigon said he lived on islands north of Albia. Orkneyjar, Quigon called them. The name meant nothing to Ben. He wracked his brain for something, anything, to offer comfort that Quigon wasn’t lying to him. So distracted was he that he missed the approach of a warrior.

“You sleep with him, but don’t fuck him.” The accusation was like a flaming arrow flying by Ben’s ear. He looked up into malicious ice-blue eyes, an angular face of surprisingly tanned dark skin framed by long pale hair that was almost white. The man probably was no older than Ben, but there was a hardness to him born of violence.

Ben understood the words, they were spoken in his language, but he didn’t answer. He just looked up at his accuser with as much calm as he could manage. His confronter’s hand flashed out as if to hit or grab Ben and he tried to cringe back. He had no weapon, his eating knife taken away the morning after he admitted to having it, and he was boxed into his little spot against the wall of the boat with no egress.

“Chun!”

Ben’s would-be attacker’s hand halted its movement at the warning from one of the other warriors. A sneer crossed Chun’s face and he reached for Ben again. Ben ducked, grabbed Chun’s wrist, and bit down as hard as he could. The tang of blood filled his mouth and his ears echoed with Chun’s surprised scream of pain.

Chun was there and then he wasn’t. Ben spat out the bit of flesh and blood he’d bitten off Chun’s wrist and looked up to see his would-be attacker dangling by the back of his shirt in Quigon’s hand. Ben’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Quigon was holding Chun so high up, the other’s legs thrashed in the air, no contact made with the floor of the ship.

“What I do with my slave is my business, Bruck Chun,” Quigon said in an almost casual tone, still speaking in Ben’s language. “I’ll fuck him if I want, or I won’t. I don’t want to at the moment so I don’t. Touch him again and you’ll get more than bit by a rabid Albian dog.”

There were several hoots of laughter at that last comment, which made Ben flush a bit in embarrassment. Chun was red as well, but whether from embarrassment or the fact he might slowly be strangling in Quigon’s hold, it was hard to tell.

Quigon unceremoniously dropped Chun flat on his ass and gave him a good kick to get him out of the way. The giant brunet Viking arched an eyebrow obviously asking ‘are you all right’ to Ben, who nodded. Dismissing the whole thing, Quigon went back to the other end of the ship and the conversation he’d been in the middle of.

“Here, Obiwan, rinse your mouth out!” called a nearby warrior, tossing Ben a water pouch.

Noting the name but desperate to clean his mouth as recommended, Ben stood up, tipped water into his mouth, swished and spat, right on the still prone Chun. There was an outraged roar from Ben’s erstwhile opponent. Feeling that his opinion was now known and deciding not to antagonize anyone further, Ben took another mouthful and this time spat over the edge of the boat into the sea. He then tossed the water pouch back to its owner, curled the blanket around him once more, and returned to his huddled position.

He watched warily as Chun clambered to his feet, shot Ben a hateful glare, and moved away. No one bothered Ben the rest of the day.

Hauled against Quigon’s warm bulk that night, the stars burning brighter than the strangely muted moon overhead, Ben asked in a hushed tone, “What does Obiwan mean?”

Quigon gave a huffing laugh and pulled Ben tighter when he felt the younger man give a shiver. “It means ‘mean little dog’,” the big man said, an obvious grin on his face from the tone of his voice.

“I’m fine with that,” Ben muttered. It would be a warning to all that he was no mealy-mouthed slave or helpless nobody.

“Obiwan you now are then. Ben died with his village,” Quigon said, loud enough for those nearby and still awake to hear. In a near whisper, mouth against Ben’s ear, he added, “And you belong to me.”

Ben, no, _Obiwan_ shivered, this time not with the cold.

* * *

Another day passed and the newly renamed Obiwan watched as the sails went down and the rowers went to work. The low chants kept them in synchronization and Obiwan moved from his usual crouched location because it was in their way. Instead he found himself tight against Quigon’s side, almost possessively so, at the back of the long boat, watching as a mist seemed to part before the dragon ships and a rocky coastline full of craggy cliffs were revealed.

“Orkneyjar,” Quigon told him with a wave of his hand. “Many islands, some you can live on, others you can’t. Your new home, Obiwan.”

The name fell easily from Quigon’s lips. Truly it seemed, in Quigon’s mind, Ben Kenobi was dead. Obiwan Kenobi was the big Viking brute’s possession. What kind of possession, Obiwan hadn’t figured out yet, but it gave him no small measure of protection from everyone else. Considering how Quigon treated him on this journey north, Obiwan decided that whatever else Quigon may be, a liar wasn’t one of them. Other than gathering Obiwan tight in his arms at night to stop Obiwan’s shivering from the cold, Quigon had made no advances, sexual or otherwise, to him.

Obiwan was starting to wonder if maybe Quigon saw him as a dog like his nickname. He wasn’t sure what he thought about that.

Various land masses were by-passed. Some ships in the fleet peeled off and landed on an island here and there, but Quigon’s ship continued on. Finally, Quigon gave a wordless shout and the rowers returned it.

Obiwan looked upon his new home. The sand was black like silt and these…things were flopping about on the beach, creating a din of barking and moaning sounds. As the remaining boats drew closer Obiwan saw that the floppy things were animals of some sort, grey with white splotches, and some with hints of black. They looked slick, like a fish but without scales. No legs, but fins and flippers like a fish. So strange.

Mystified, Obiwan looked up at Quigon. “What are they?” he asked, pointing at the creatures.

“Seals.”

“What do they do?” Obiwan couldn’t imagine they were useful for much, helpless looking though they seemed. Maybe they were a meat source?

“Get in the way and make noise,” Quigon answered. “I’ll tell you more later.” Quigon moved away and began to shout orders in Norse.

The boats went a bit down the coastline away from the seal colony and, with almighty strokes from the oarsmen, the boats hit land, prows first. There was a raucous cheer from the four boats that landed and a flurry of activity began.

Men gathered slaves and captives for ransom, along with their personal belongings. Soon everyone was on land. The ships were pulled further up onto the beach and tied down. Obiwan watched it all with as much dismay as the other captives, none of whom came from his village, he knew. This display of permanency hammered home that they were elsewhere, were going into someone else’s domain, to do whatever they were ordered to do by their new masters. Or a mistress.

Obiwan’s eyes flew to Quigon in alarm. He’d never mentioned a wife, but was Quigon married? Maybe a concubine? Did he have children? If so, where did Obiwan fit in the scheme of Quigon’s life and household?

Quigon drudged to Obiwan, took his arm, and pulled him into a side-by-side step, heading towards the smell of wood smoke. It took a short walk to reach Quigon’s village. What Obiwan was expecting, this wasn’t it.

The village looked like any other. People in homespun garments of heavy wools and linens, feet encased in sturdy leather boots or shoes, and practical headgear depending on age and gender. Various buildings, some residences, other communal buildings. In the near center of town was a long building. Obiwan assumed that was a meeting house, or maybe a church?

When the warriors were noticed there was a small bit of pandemonium. Slaves were taken to their new homes, but Quigon stopped anyone from taking Obiwan. That drew some curious glances but no one said anything. The word ‘jarl’ was spoken many times, almost always at Quigon. Everyone deferred to him in one way or the other.

Obiwan knew the word, had heard it spoken before in regards to the Norsemen. Quigon was a nobleman, an important nobleman. And Obiwan belonged to him.

For some reason that reassured Obiwan more than anything else. Quigon gave his word that Obiwan would not be harmed and he had the power and influence to see that it didn’t happen.

Master Kit Fisto had been affectionate in his own way but was a harsh task master in others. He expected Ben Kenobi to work hard, learn, and not be a waste of time or energy. Ben had been beaten, not often, but it had been done.

Something told Obiwan that Quigon would not raise a hand to him unless Obiwan did something that earned it fairly. That was fine. Better than he expected and probably more than he deserved.

The official greetings wound down. Quigon directed him to the long house. Obiwan stepped inside, gaping, realizing that this was Quigon’s home, like a castle, though not exactly a castle.

It looked similar inside some ways to a cottage, though with strange blocked off areas at the front like maybe pens, but at the moment, Obiwan didn’t care. He scurried to a corner at the far end and waited for directions. Within minutes Quigon had a fire going from tinder and kindling and was adding a couple of larger logs to it. An iron water pot hung over the fire and soon Quigon was pouring water into it.

“Hot bath for you, Obiwan,” Quigon said, turning to him. “Dig around for a change of clothes. We’ll speak with Yaddle about making more garments for you. Look around. Find where everything is.” Quigon gave him an easy, relieved smile and waved a hand to encompass the cottage. “We’re home.”

Quigon gathered some clothes from a wooden chest by an actual large bed frame filled with bed straw. He then ducked out of the house and left Obiwan alone.

All right then, Obiwan determined. Hot bath. Clean hair. Hopefully clothes that fit and were not full of lice. Dig around for something to eat that’s not hard tack and dried meat. After that he could face down anything and anyone these Norseman can throw at him.

He hoped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruck shows further lack of honor and we meet Yaddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nordic letters appear to be showing appropriately, at least on Chrome. If they don't show on whatever version you are viewing AO3 on, my apologies. :(

Quigon sluiced his way through the deep stream and dunked himself. The water was chilly but that was all right. It felt good, actually, cooling his overheated body if not his thoughts. It had been like fighting the demons of Hel sleeping next to Obiwan every night on the boat. That lanky, but muscular body shivering in the coolness of night, brushing against Quigon in a way the lad likely didn’t know bordered on erotic.

‘Freyr help me,’ Quigon thought to himself, beseeching the god of lust and pleasure. ‘I need the man more than I’ve needed anyone in my life.’ Since Obiwan didn’t miraculously appear naked in the approaching gloom, Quigon decided Freyr was intent on torturing him some more.

He wrapped a hand around his cock and gave it a stroke or two. He’d been half-hard almost constantly for days so it didn’t take much for it to go rock-solid. He floated on his back and brought himself to release, not caring if his moan of pleasure echoed the area. As he languidly came back to himself, Quigon became aware he wasn’t alone. He slanted his gaze to the bank and was disconcerted to find Bruck Chun sitting there, watching him avidly.

“I could have done it better,” came the shocking offer from the younger man.

Quigon’s brows drew together in consternation. “Done what?” he snapped, dipping down until his feet hit bottom and walking to the shore where his clean clothes and a drying cloth waited.

Bruck beat him there and was holding out the drying cloth with what could only be described as a sultry look. “Made you come.”

Again, Quigon was shocked. Thralls, lesser men, and the desperate dregs offered themselves to be another man’s lay. Not a warrior, blooded honorably as Bruck had been this raid. “Think of what you offer,” he growled, jerking the cloth away and briskly drying himself. “You dishonor yourself.”

Bruck’s glacier-blue eyes followed Quigon’s hands as they moved and lust gleamed within them, widening the black pupil a bit. “If you don’t tell,” he said coyly, “I won’t tell.”

Quigon growled, “Begone, _vitskertr_. Don’t be a fool.” He turned his back and dressed. His nerves tingled warning and he spun around in time to grab the idiot’s hands as they stretched out to caress him. He pulled Bruck close and snarled in a low tone, “ _Meyla_ , you aren’t man enough for me.” He shoved his would-be seducer away, gathered his dirty things, and headed back to the village.

Angered by Bruck’s presumption and eager willingness to degrade himself, Quigon stormed into his longhouse and all but threw his dirty things onto the roughhewn floor. There was a gasp and a scurrying sound, making Quigon whirl around to face the noise.

Obiwan. Quigon drew in a steadying breath, seeing the alarmed features of object of his earlier fantasy. He pasted a small, easy smile on his face and looked about. Nothing looked out of place or touched, bar a wet cloth hanging half out of a large bowl Obiwan undoubtedly used for washing.

“Did you find everything?” he asked in a purposeful light tone.

Obiwan stared at him almost mistrustfully. “Why were you angry?” came the rejoin.

“Bruck confronted me at the stream, that’s all,” soothed Quigon. “It was nothing. I’m tired and he angered me.”

Obiwan fell silent, as if ruminating on this information, so Quigon busied himself with pawing through his baskets and trunks, looking for warmer clothes than what Obiwan was wearing. He would have to commission Yaddle, the village seamstress, to make Obiwan some clothes. For now though…

He turned and tossed some garments at Obiwan, who gave a startled squawk and caught them. “They’ll be large,” Quigon said, “but they’ll be warm too.” He cocked his head. “Why are you always cold?” he asked as an afterthought.

Obiwan bowed his head as he tugged an oversized tunic on, the wool garment swallowing him up. “Don’t know,” he muttered. “Healers never could find out. Master Kit always made sure I had plenty of blankets and furs in winter.”

Quigon grunted, making note of that. If he managed to coax Obiwan into his bed, either Quigon needed to hope his own body heat would suffice or figure out how to sleep with the man buried under a mountain of layers. Quigon ran warm himself but the way Obiwan shivered on the boat each night of their travel north, Quigon doubted his own body would be much help.

Quigon sighed. That was a worry for another time. He motioned to a corner. “You may sleep there. We’ll make you up a pallet for now until I can commission the building of you a bed. My sister, Tahl, will bring my animals in the morning.”

Obiwan’s expression turned puzzled. “Why is she bringing them here?” he asked.

Quigon blinked before he remembered the Scots kept their animals outside, except for maybe a dog and a cat or perhaps a hunting hawk. “That end,” he motioned to the front of the long house, “is for the animals. It looks like my pens have broken down in spots. We’ll need to fix them first. That’s why it’s a dirt floor there and not here.”

Obiwan looked horrified. “We live with the animals?”

Quigon gave a laugh at Obiwan’s genuine disgust. “Yes. The weather is milder here in winters but it’s how it’s done in our lands. The winter is long and brutal. The animals would not survive. Consider it sharing heat.” Quigon turned his tone teasing. “The way you shiver at night, you should be grateful for more warmth in the place.”

Obiwan flushed a becoming shade of red and busied himself with making a pallet from the blankets and furs Quigon provided. Quigon thought about offering the young man space in his bed but decided that sleeping for warmth and protection on the ship was one thing. Obiwan would take such an offer now as Quigon breaking his word not to coerce the other into sexual relations.

‘Time,” Quigon thought to himself, ‘give it time.’ He only hoped his cock would survive the coming drought.

There was a loud scratching at the door and Quigon called out, “Come!”

Yaddle entered, a squat, tiny but stout woman with a shock of red hair pulled into a knot on the top of her head. She blinked owlish brown eyes at Obiwan and shoved a covered pot in Quigon’s hands when she reached them.

“Eat that. Especially him,” she said, waving a hand at Obiwan. “He looks underfed. Yorg said the boy was cold all the time. Needs meat on his bones. Enough maybe the Grendel will want to eat him!” She cackled even as she plopped herself down next to the central fire.

“I’m glad you came, Yaddle,” Quigon said, digging out bowls and offering her one before handing one to Obiwan as well. The youth sat on the opposite side of the fire and stared at Yaddle in fascination.

She did seem an odd creature, Quigon acknowledged. If she’d had green skin she might pass as a tiny troll. Yaddle had a heart of gold, though, but was no one’s pushover. She told it how it was and if you didn’t like, you didn’t have to listen.

“Obiwan needs clothes. I have fabrics, wools and such. Can you make him some?” Quigon ladled the hearty stew he uncovered into each held out bowl. Obiwan pulled out a horn spoon from his pouch and began to eat like he was starving.

Yaddle watched Quigon’s new acquisition in satisfaction. “Easily done. He’s so small. Hardly need any fabrics at all. Can use scraps.” She cackled again and then too began to shovel food into her mouth.

Obiwan’s slight blush was extremely fetching to Quigon’s eye and to distract himself he too began to eat. “Where’d you get the venison?” he asked, biting into a meat chunk.

“Trader came through two days ago, had a fresh kill,” Yaddle said. “Traded a fine cloak for it. Knew in my bones our warriors were returning soon. Knew you’d be hungry.”

To Quigon’s surprise, Obiwan spoke up. “It’s good, Mistress Yaddle, but don’t give any to Bruck Chun.”

Yaddle gave Obiwan a slow blink of what Quigon thought was astonishment. “Why do you say that?” she asked curiously.

Obiwan hunched his shoulders and cradled his bowl a moment. “He has no honor.”

Quigon couldn’t argue with that, especially after his earlier run in with the man.

Yaddle, though, seemed interested in Obiwan’s opinion. “No honor? You belong to Jarl Quigon Jinn. If Chun treats you bad, you tell Quigon. Quigon will put him in his place. Bruck,” she sneered. “He’s always been trouble. I saw his father was disappointed he came back alive this raid.”

That got Quigon’s attention. He took the bowl from Obiwan, found it empty, filled it and handed it back. Obiwan gave a nod of thanks. “What kind of trouble, Yaddle?” Quigon asked.

She snorted. “Your Obiwan’s right. No honor. No better than a whore. Much shame he brings on himself and his family.” She leaned forward to Quigon in a conspiratorial manner. “I think Sverre was hoping either Bruck would get wise or get dead.”

“Neither happened,” Quigon returned, thinking again of the encounter by the stream. “Why is he that way, Yaddle? What makes him dishonor himself so uncaringly?”

She grunted, setting her finished stew aside. “Don’t know. I have my thoughts, though.” She paused. “Sverre not a good father,” she added. “Watch him, Quigon. He’s no good.”

Quigon nodded, taking the warning to heart. As Jarl, he was the highest born in the village, if not the whole island chain. He answered to no one here as a social equal, though he considered many personally to be so. He swore his oath of allegiance to Einarr in their homeland. Which reminded him…

“Any word from Einarr?” he rumbled around a big bite of stew.

Yaddle leaned back on her elbows and stretched her feet out toward the fire. “Three weeks past,” she answered. “You are to send word when you return. He is calling an Alþing next spring. You are summoned, as are all free men, to his hall.”

Quigon nodded his understanding. “Nothing else?”

Yaddle grinned briefly. “He has married. And apparently he is happy with his wife.”

Quigon gave a chuckle. “That is good.”

She gave him a considering look. “Maybe not for you. Happily wedded men want other happily wedded men among their friends.”

Quigon gave another nod, this time tipping his head just once. “I know. I am content as I am for now. Let the future bring what it will.” He could feel Obiwan’s gaze on him but didn’t look at his thrall and hopefully soon willing bedmate.

“Stand up, boy!” barked Yaddle. Quigon glanced up in surprise and saw her gazing at Obiwan. Obiwan obeyed and Yaddle rose too, toddling over to him on her short, stubby legs.

She whipped out a length of twine with knots in it from her pouch and began measuring various points of Obiwan’s body. Once she finished, she gave a grunt. “What fabrics do you have here now?” she demanded.

Quigon obligingly dug through one of several trunks brought to his long house that afternoon. He brought forth not only wools, but fine, thick velvets. He handed off the material to Yaddle, who then held each one up to Obiwan’s face, muttering under her breath with each passing bolt. Those that passed muster went in one pile, those that didn’t, another.

“No velvets!” Obiwan protested when a fine dark green of that fabric was held up for consideration. “I’m a slave now. Slaves don’t wear fine velvets.”

“You’ll wear what’s warm,” Quigon told him languidly, sitting back and watching with amusement Yaddle’s choosing. “I’ll not hear you bitching in the winter months about being cold. And being wrapped up to your nose in blankets so that little work gets done.”

As if the words burst from him, Obiwan said, “I thought I was to warm your bed?” He then looked horrified he’d asked.

Quigon quickly reassured him. “I want you there, make no mistake, Obiwan, but I won’t force you. However, this is a working village. We all work or we all die. I expect you to continue training with your sword as well. Just because we’re rarely raided doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. You can’t do any of that if you’re wrapped like some ancient Egyptian mummy.”

Yaddle raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing.

Obiwan frowned. “What’s a mummy?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” chuckled Quigon. “It’s rather disturbing actually. The ancient ones in the Mediterranean countries were very strange.”

Yaddle gathered up some of the fabrics she decided on and headed for the door. “I’ll start on these in the morning, Quigon. Should have some done by next Woden’s Day. Maybe Thor’s Day.”

“I’ll pay however you need, Yaddle, and we are in your debt for dinner,” Quigon called back. Yaddle didn’t reply, the heavy wooden door slamming behind her. Quigon looked at his new thrall. “Do you want to sleep or listen to stories?”

Obiwan hesitated, then huddled back into his blanket wrap. “Bed time stories are the best,” he said simply.

So Quigon told him of Egyptian mummies. Or at least what Quigon had learned of them. By the time he finished, Obiwan was asleep sitting up, chin on his chest. Quigon lifted the young man easily into his arms, reveling in the clean scent his thrall now sported, and tucked him into his pallet. The furs Obiwan folded into a pillow were secure beneath his head and the younger man snuffled a bit as he settled down.

Quigon smiled and put himself to bed as well. Tomorrow would be a long day. Sleep prepared one for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Viking Vocabulary Lesson for Today:  
> Vitskertr – short wit  
> Meyla – little girl  
> ϸing – literally translated as “thing”, it was the Viking word for their meetings for all freemen who could come  
> Alþing - the national thing, where decisions regarding the entire society were made


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obiwan gets his first taste of life in a Viking village

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the brief hiatus. I've been prepping for Nanowrimo and my original story for it. Posting will slow down for a bit because I don't want to get too caught up to where I'm at, as I'm writing on two Backwards bang story at once, plus the original romance for Nanowrimo. Please be patient! This will not be a WIP left hanging!

Obiwan woke when a rattle of metal pierced his slumber. He blinked his heavy eyelids open and peered into the gloom of the long house. There were few windows so very little light was present, even during the day. He stretched, feeling soreness where he’d lay on a pallet that wasn’t as soft as he thought it would be when he made it up yesterday.

He thought about asking Quigon for more padding but then discarded the idea. He was a slave. He should feel lucky for what he had. Obiwan couldn’t stop the groan when he came to his knees and then his feet. It got Quigon’s attention at the central fire, making the big man look up.

“We’ll add more padding later,” Quigon said, correctly guessing Obiwan’s ailments.

“There’s no need,” Obiwan began but a slash of Quigon’s hand halted his words.

“There’s a need if I say there’s one. Sit.” Quigon indicated Obiwan’s previous place at the fire the night before, handing him a bowl in the process. “It’s not much. I’m no cook, but it will stick to your ribs and we’ve much to do today.”

Quigon hadn’t been lying, Obiwan discovered. The over-cooked oats were on the shady side of burnt and bland as could be. Obiwan ate it anyway, taking Quigon’s words to heart. He remembered mention of animals arriving today.

Quigon poured something hot in a tin cup and handed it to Obiwan. Obiwan looked at it skeptically. “Oh, just drink it,” Quigon said with a laugh.

Obiwan did and made a face. “I’m taking over cooking. You’re abysmal.”

Quigon gave a grin that transformed his craggy features into something handsome. Obiwan swallowed and looked away. He didn’t need to be thinking such thoughts of the man who destroyed his old life and made him a slave.

“I have no problems with that,” Quigon told him. “I will admit that cooking is not one of my strengths.”

Obiwan dared a glance and found Quigon looking at him appreciatively, blue eyes trailing down his body and back up. “What?” he tried to say tersely but it came out more like a squeak.

“You look good just out of bed,” Quigon said. He was stopped from further observations by a strong, feminine voice calling from outside.

“Quigon Jinn! Get your big arse out here and help with these beasts of yours!”

“That would be Tahl.” Obiwan was thankful for the reminder of Quigon’s sister’s name. “Hurry and eat then join us outside. You know animals?” Obiwan took another brave, big mouthful of over-wined pottage and nodded. “Good. We need to starting culling the sick and weak.”

Quigon left and Obiwan sagged in relief. He ate a bit slower and gagged at least twice. By the saints, he was definitely taking over the cooking! He wondered what meat sources were available on these islands and resolved again to ask about these seal creatures. Finished, he sloshed some water into both he and Quigon’s empty bowls to soak, tamped down the fire a bit, and headed for the door.

Outside was chaos. Goats, a few sheep, several heads of cattle that looked like what Obiwan was used to, and some ducks and geese were causing an almighty ruckus when he stepped outside. Astonished, and wondering where they would go inside the long house, Obiwan scanned the area for Quigon. Seeing him with a startling beautiful woman, Obiwan made his way to his new master’s side.

“Ah, Obiwan.” Quigon slapped a hand on Obiwan’s shoulder. “This is Obiwan, Tahl. A bit scrawny to us but clever and quick. I have no doubts we can fatten him up some.” He spoke in Obiwan’s Scots dialect so he would understand what was being said.

Tahl was a strange woman, to Obiwan’s way of thinking. He knew little of the Norsemen’s womenfolk and their customs but, to him, she seemed uncommonly powerful. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he had that impression though. She also didn’t meet his gaze, which made Obiwan drop his own in shame. He needed to remember he was a thrall. To meet the eye of a free woman was probably taboo.

With his eyes cast down, Obiwan missed her hands coming up until they were cupping his face, fingers gingerly grazing all over. He chanced a look up at her. Her eyes were unfocused still, her fingers lightly mapping his features. It took him another moment to realize she was blind.

He couldn’t stop the gasp of surprise at the revelation. She gave a quirking smile so similar to her brother’s. “Figured it out, did you?” she asked in his language.

“I’m sorry,” Obiwan said a bit shamefully.

“Why? You didn’t blind me.” Her words were almost cheerful. “He’s handsome, Qui,” she said, turning away. “His cheeks feel hollow. Is that what you mean by scrawny? You don’t think _your_ cooking is going to fatten him up, do you?” she added jokingly.

Quigon took the ribbing in stride. “Just not long ago Obiwan volunteered to do the cooking.”

“You might see me at your table more often then, you big lout,” she parried. Dismissing the subject, she turned back to Obiwan. “Now, Obiwan, Quigon is so out of practice with pigs, it’s ridiculous. Do you know anything about pigs?”

Obiwan couldn’t help his lip from curling. “They belong outside.”

She laughed, a peel of mirth that drew the attention of several people nearby. “These aren’t so bad,” she assured him. “I’ll leave you big, burly, strong men to it then. Qui, let me know which ones you want butchered. I’ll send round Bant to help Obiwan herd them to Torgny.” She arched a shapely eyebrow as pitch black as her hair. “I assure you I’m going to wrangle a good price out of you for playing farmer with _your_ animals.”

Quigon didn’t bat an eye. “I’m sure you will, sister mine. I’ll let you know. Now, begone!” He swatted at her rear to get her moving but her hand flashed in a blur, took hold of Quigon’s wrist and had him flat on his back.

Obiwan gaped in astonishment.

“That hasn’t worked since you were sixteen years, Qui,” she grinned. “What makes you think it will work now?”

“Delusions,” Quigon grunted from his spot on the ground.

“You got that right,” she snorted and walked off.

Quigon was sporting a sheepish expression as he stood up and tried to brush dirt and leaves from his clothing. Obiwan took pity on him and helped. The heat of Quigon’s body through the fabric made Obiwan’s hands burn. He could feel a slight flush on his cheeks and cursed his fair skin.

Quigon waded into the goats and began inspecting them. Obiwan joined him and soon they were involved in weeding out the elderly, the lame, and the ones too troublesome to keep in a house.

Obiwan paused his examinations and looked about the village. The houses were in various shapes and sized, none as large as Quigon’s. Men that Obiwan recognized from the raid were doing similar things, looking over cattle and animals. Some were engaged in repairs of buildings, helping each other.

It was nearing the end of summer, Obiwan knew, so time was probably running short on getting things ready for winter. What autumn was like here, he had no idea. He and Quigon worked steadily for what Obiwan estimated was two hours when Quigon straightened up and stretched his back.

“You’re cooking. What’s for dinner?” Quigon asked.

Obiwan cast about in his mind. “What are my options for ingredients?” he asked.

“Not much in the stores. I’ve been gone since mid-spring,” Quigon told him thoughtfully. “Plenty of hares on the island. I could hunt a couple.”

“Just rabbit?” Obiwan hiked an eyebrow.

“The garden should still have leeks, maybe some turnips or parsnips,” Quigon told him. “Behind the long house. Dig up what you need.”

Obiwan nodded and headed behind the house, winding his way through goats, sheep, cattle and sidestepping a cantankerous gander who seemed to take a dislike to him. He stopped and kicked at it. “Can we eat _him_ too?” he asked peevishly.

“Between your religion and mine, I’m sure there’s a feast day coming up that he would make a fine meal for,” Quigon returned with a laugh. The big man ducked into the house, returned with a hefty looking bow and quiver, and strode off into the island’s wilderness.

Obiwan found the garden, surprised at how well tended and full of crop it was, considering Quigon hadn’t been present for most of its growing season. He dug up leeks, a fat onion, and an even bigger turnip. He investigated the rest of the garden, finding cabbages, hard peas good for soups and even a couple of apple trees with apples hanging heavy on their branches. At the edge of what he supposed was Quigon’s property, wild berry bushes grew but when Obiwan inspected them, most had been picked clean by local wildlife. Further meanderings found an herb garden, with fennel, thyme, mustard, and other staple herbs that he was familiar with.

By the time Obiwan made his way back to the front of the long house, Quigon was back, to the younger man’s surprise. Two fat hares hung from cross-post and Quigon was busy gutting and skinning them.

“More fur to wrap yourself in, Obiwan,” joked Quigon. Obiwan tried not to blush at that and failed, which made Quigon chortle. “There’s no shame in how you feel things, young one,” the big man said, tossing aside some rabbit innards for a pack of dogs Obiwan had never seen before. “I can’t stand summer personally. Too hot.”

Obiwan looked at the dogs. They were a breed new to him. Heavy coated with fur of black, white and gray, they had the oddest curled tails, tight against their backs. Black muzzles nudged through their master’s offerings almost politely, only the occasional warning snarl emitting from the four of them.

One looked up as if sensing Obiwan’s curious gaze and trotted over, licking the grime from around its mouth almost fastidiously. It plopped down in front of Obiwan and lifted a paw as if to shake. Tentatively, Obiwan grasped the paw and gave it a gentle shake.

“Nikki is my old man,” Quigon said, watching the two of them.

“Nikki?” Obiwan had never heard the name.

“Named for some Rus I heard about. Bjorn,” Quigon motioned to another dog, lighter in color than the other three and a bit overweight. “He’s sickly, unfortunately. Nikki’s son. Gets these lesions on his skin. Don’t know why. No one does. Still a good hunter, when he feels the urge.”

“Bjorn means bear, right?” Obiwan asked.

“Yes.”

“And the other two? Are they related?” Obiwan motioned to the ones ignoring him entirely.

“That one,” Quigon motioned to the shorter of the remaining dogs, “is Jacques. The other is Smoke.”

Obiwan couldn’t refrain from asking another question. “Why Jacques?”

Quigon shrugged. “Killed a man. Met his son years later. His name was Jacques and sought to kill me in revenge. Fought me to a standstill. He was a fine warrior and a good man. Seemed fitting a good hunting dog be named for him.”

Obiwan supposed to a Norseman that made sense. “What kind are they?”

“Elghund.”

“And that means?”

“Moose dog.” Quigon tossed something else gruesome to the pack and Nikki trotted back for his share.

“They hunt moose?”

“Among other things.” Quigon looked up. “You like dogs?”

Obiwan shrugged. “I don’t _not_ like them,” he said. “Master Fisto didn’t care much for them.” It took him a moment to realize how nonchalantly he’d spoken of his dead foster father.

He opened and closed his mouth helplessly before fleeing with his garden bounty for the long house’s confines.


	6. Chapter 6

Quigon found it amusing how long it took Obiwan to get over his distaste of having resident farm animals. The dogs didn’t seem to alarm the young Scot but the rest? His thrall did not approve of their living arrangements. He indulged in a grin behind Obiwan’s back as the young man one late autumn morning patted a random goat, smacked away the greedy muzzle of a horse, and whistled for the dogs to follow him outside.

Nikki, Smoke and Jacques grumbled as they hauled their lazy selves to their feet but Bjorn happily raced to beat Obiwan to the door at the far end of the long house. The dog and the slave had formed some sort of bond. When one of Bjorn’s lesions erupted, Obiwan bathed the seeping wound with herbal tinctures, carefully shaving the thick fur away from the wound, and all but hand fed the animal protectively. It earned Obiwan Bjorn’s devotion. It pleased Quigon, as Bjorn had always been aloof to everyone, even his own master, as if sensing his ill health made him a hindrance rather than a help.

Obiwan adamantly refused to wear the velvet clothes Yaddle painstakingly made for him except on feast days. At Haustblot, the fall feast, the Scot had been resplendent in the green tunic, unadorned though it was. Quigon had been unable to take his eyes off him the entire evening’s festivities. Vetrnaetr was approaching, the daylight shortening and the weather crisping to morning frosts. Quigon had a vague recollection that the Christians had a feast day call All-Soul’s Day around the same time. He hoped Obiwan would wear the blue velvet this time but honestly, Obiwan in nothing at all was Quigon’s ultimate preference.

It was coming onto several months since Quigon had last slaked his lust beyond what his hand provided. While he didn’t mind a woman in his bed, they weren’t his preference. Plus, he’d seen an occasional flash of desire and lust in Obiwan’s changeling green eyes directed at Quigon, which gave the Norseman a bit of hope that eventually his advances would be welcome.

As his slave, Obiwan truly had no right to refuse him if Quigon wanted sex, but Quigon was restricted by his vow. It also didn’t help that Bruck Chun continued to approach Quigon when he could catch the older man alone, making more and more lurid advances. Quigon didn’t want Bruck, but if he didn’t have someone soon, he was going to explode.

He frowned as his thoughts turned to the other young man. The Chuns he knew little about. They were newcomers to the area, arriving when Quigon was on raids this past year. They kept to themselves but in a small village, everyone knew everyone else’s business. From what Quigon could discern, Bruck had been a wild child from their arrival. Promiscuous, a liar, a cheat, and seeming to have little care for honor or self-control, Bruck had been a thorn in many a side.

Already, several people approached Quigon, asking if something could be done about the young man: either exile him or take his family to task and demand they exert some control over the youth. Opinions differed but all insisted something needed be done.

It didn’t endear Bruck to Quigon that the freeman tormented Quigon’s thrall either.

As if the thought brought about the conflict, there was a shout outside, angry and venomous in tone. Cruel laughter followed it, along with barking from Quigon’s dogs. Bjorn’s deep woof of warning was what drew Quigon outside as fast as he could. Bjorn rarely barked.

He found Obiwan on the ground, face in a mud puddle created by overnight rain, Bruck’s foot on Obiwan’s neck, pressing him down. Quigon saw red and had Obiwan’s attacker dangling by his scruff before Bruck registered the Jarl was even there.

“What do you think you are doing?” Quigon raged, giving Bruck an almighty shake.

Bruck managed to spit back, choking a little, “He refused to do what he was told! He’s a thrall. He follows orders.”

“He’s _my_ thrall,” Quigon contradicted, tossing Bruck aside like he was offal. “Not yours. He doesn’t follow _your_ orders, he follows mine.”

Obiwan was on his hands and knees, spitting out mud and retching. Quigon bodily lifted Obiwan as if he were a child and cradled him like a babe. “Touch anything that belongs to me, Bruck Chun, and I will remove the hand that did it. Begone, _tros_.”

He didn’t pause to see what Bruck did or said but headed straight for the stream. Obiwan was vainly trying to wipe mud from his face, but his hands were as caked as his head. He continued to cough and splutter, eyes closed even though he’d tried to wipe the mud from them.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” Quigon said reassuringly.

The walk to the stream was quick with Quigon’s long strides. For Obiwan, the water would be freezing but it was the quickest way to clean him off. Quigon set Obiwan on his feet, stripped him of his clothes, ignoring the younger man’s protests, kicked off his own leather shoes, and waded in. He dunked Obiwan several times, the other spluttering and shrieking at the cold, but the mud sluiced off easily. It was then Quigon realized he had nothing clean for Obiwan to change into nor anything to dry him off with.

He picked Obiwan up again, ignoring the dripping and water seeping into his clothes, and set his now mostly clean thrall on the bank. Quigon shucked his tunic and briskly dried Obiwan off. Wet hair, almost an auburn instead of the reddish-gold it was when dry, flopped in Obiwan’s eyes and the man impatiently shoved it away.

Obiwan glared accusingly at Quigon. “Isn’t there a well you could have pulled a bucket from and dumped over me?” he demanded.

Quigon grinned despite himself. “Yes. But this is more efficient.”

“And colder!”

“You’ll warm up soon enough,” Quigon told him sympathetically. “Lots of work to be done. Exercise will get the blood pumping.” Obiwan continued to glare at him but seemed to have nothing to say to that. “What provoked Bruck into attacking you?” Quigon asked pointedly.

Obiwan’s gaze shifted away at that question. “He- never mind. It’s not important,” he tried to shy off.

Quigon forced Obiwan’s head back around and their eyes to meet. “As Jarl, and your master, I must insist, Obiwan.”

Obiwan swallowed but nodded reluctantly. “He said since I’m not fucking you, I could be fucked by him for practice. Then maybe you’d want me.”

Rage roared to life and Quigon growled. “I don’t ‘fuck you’, as the cur so crudely put it, because I told you I wouldn’t until you were willing. You haven’t been willing, so I haven’t forced the issue.” Quigon kept eye contact when he added, “But I assure you, I _want_. Very much. All you have to do is come into my bed willingly.”

Obiwan audibly gulped and shifted his eyes away again, this time with a hint of heat in his cheeks. Quigon released his hold on the Scots’ chin and finished rubbing him down. He stood up and brought Obiwan to his feet as well.

“Walk with my tunic around your middle or do I carry you back to the long house for a change of clothes?”

Wordlessly, Obiwan clumsily wrapped the tunic around his waist, took one step and winced as his bare foot crunched on something. Without a word, Quigon swept him back up and made their way back to the village.

When Quigon passed Sifo, who’d returned just two days previous from the slave selling, he said, “Can you gather Obiwan’s clothes by the stream? And if you would be so kind, maybe rinse the mud out of them?”

“Of course,” Sifo said, as if such a thing wasn’t beneath his dignity.

Quigon noted that Bruck was still laying on the ground, pinned by the four elghunds, Bjorn the fiercest of the bunch. Before he stepped inside, he gave a whistle and the dogs backed off to join him and Obiwan inside. Smatterings of laughter went around from the onlookers, no doubt adding to Bruck’s humiliation, but Quigon could really care less. Obiwan’s shaking from his cold stream plunge commanded Quigon’s attention at the moment.

He dug out the warmest clothes the young man had and made him dress before wrapping Obiwan in furs and wool blankets. Quigon was alarmed that Obiwan’s lips had a bluish tinge. “You’re excused from work,” he said brusquely. “Get under the covers and keep warm. Bjorn,” he said to the dog, who perked up his ears, “stay with Obiwan.” He made a hand gesture and Bjorn was curled up next to Obiwan on his pallet with no hesitation.

Quigon exited the long house and began the day’s work. There was much to be done and, minus Obiwan’s hands to help, Quigon needed to work harder and faster. He split more logs, helped thresh the fields of alfalfa and barley, assisted with a very late calving, and then argued with Cnut on whether the calf was worth trying to keep alive come winter. He ate the bit of rye bread his sister, Tahl, brought him and was assured by her that she would check on Obiwan. Before he knew it, the sunlight was waning. Time to stop the day’s work.

He entered to find Tahl hovering over a thrashing Obiwan. “What’s going on?” he demanded tiredly.

Tahl turned her sightless eyes in his direction, relief frank on her face. “Fetch Adi Gallia,” she commanded tersely. “He has fever.”

Quigon’s mind went blank. “What?” he asked stupidly.

“You fool! Dunking someone like him the freezing river!” she snapped. “Fetch Adi! Now!”

Her authoritative tone pierced the exhausted fog of Quigon’s brain and got him moving. The urgency in Tahl’s tone made him race across the village square and had him pounding frantically on the healer’s door. “Adi!” he cried. “Come! Obiwan has fever!”

The door wrenched open and Adi Gallia’s youthful face appeared, framed by her odd, pure white hair. “What fever?” she asked, waving Quigon in.

“I don’t know. Tahl just said fever from me washing him this morning in the stream,” panted Quigon. He took it for granted that she would know why such a thing was done. It was small village, after all. She may have been a witness to the altercation.

Adi tsked acerbically but threw in a bag several jars and dangling herb bundles. She glared at him. “You’re a fool, Quigon Yanson,” she growled. “Everyone in the village knows Obiwan hates the cold.”

Quigon tried to feel shame but it was overwhelmed by a tight clench of panic in his chest. “Whatever you charge, I’ll pay it,” he told her.

She snorted and brushed by him briskly. “Even bigger fool than I thought,” she snapped. “He fixed my fences and weeded my gardens without being asked to. Like I need payment from _you_.” She was out the door while Quigon was still processing her words.

He quickly followed, making sure her door was securely shut, and was three steps behind her all the way back to the long house. Heads were poking out of doors and calls of inquiry into what was going on carried on the dusk’s wind. Quigon ignored them all.

If Obiwan died, it would be on Quigon’s head. Obiwan Kenobi was worth a hundred Bruck Chuns. If Obiwan died, Quigon would kill Bruck before the village in retaliation and then offer whatever what required in wergild to whoever wanted it. Then he would find out what sacrifice was needed so that Obiwan would be allowed to go undenied to his Christian Heaven. Surely Quigon’s gods and Obiwan’s god spoke to one another. The afterlife had to be crowded with souls of various religions.

These nonsensical thoughts flittered away like a falling leaf in a strong wind when he and Adi entered the long house. Obiwan’s moans and thrashing disturbed the animals and the building was a din of bleats, honks, lowing, and other animal complaints. Even the dogs were giving sympathetic whimpers with Obiwan.

Such healing was a woman’s realm. Quigon was left to fetch and carry. His day’s exhaustion was forgotten with this new worry and fear. He heated water and drudged to the stream for cold as well. He helped grind in mortar and pestle leaves and roots that were then mixed and steeped in water to be trickled into Obiwan’s mouth. The hours crawled and it seemed Obiwan grew no better but no worse either.

Adi sat back finally around dawn and said in a resigned tone, “It’s in the gods’ hands now.”

Dumbly Quigon murmured, “He’s a Christian.”

Adi’s tired gaze turned on him. “Then ask for blessings from Rafael.”

Quigon was confused. “Who is that?”

“The Christian god’s angel of healing.”

Tahl sat back and leaned forward to stretch, her spine making a couple of pops. “For good measure, throw in ours too, Quigon. Eir and this Rafael both. Get on your knees and make whatever offering they deem worthy of their aid. We’ve done all we can.”

Adi gave Quigon last bit of instruction on continuing the tinctures and potions before both women left. Distraught, Quigon gathered Obiwan from his pallet. It was soaked with the ill man’s sweat, spilled draughts and broths, and who knew what else. Quigon stripped Obiwan down, settled the thrall in his own bed, stripped himself, gathered up every bit of clean bedding he had to cover them both, and stretch up tight against Obiwan. He gathered the young man in his arms and murmured prayers in every language he knew. As he fell into an exhausted sleep words came to him unbidden: “Better to die with honor, than live with shame.”

They burned in his mind as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haustblot – fall festival, the autumnal equinox, usually around September 21-24, depending on the calendar – it celebrates the second harvest of the season
> 
> Vetrnaetr – Winter Nights, mid to late October is the final harvest festival, when animals not predicted to survive the winter are butchered for winter meat. It also is a matriarchal-led celebration, with the woman of the family, as she is considered the ruler of the house, heading the festivities. The Norse Winter Night, the Celtic All Hallow’s Eve and Christianity’s November 1 All Saint’s Days created to make adaptation to Christianity easier for the populace.
> 
> Tros – trash or droppings (of which I’m assuming as in poo droppings)


	7. Chapter 7

Quigon woke in early afternoon, still tired but not the exhausted he was when he fell asleep with Obiwan in his arms. He felt Obiwan’s forehead, relieved that the fever seemed to have broken, but worried because Obiwan’s sleep still appeared fitful. He lay there for long moments, reveling in the feel of Obiwan in his arms as he’d so long wished. It was poor luck that it took Obiwan’s near death from Quigon’s own stupidity to get him there.

And Bruck Chun.

Quigon clenched his jaw, swung out of bed and quickly covered Obiwan back up. The younger man flinched slightly at the brisk air of the unheated long house but soon settled when the cocoon of warmth enveloped him once more. Quigon splashed tepid leftover water from bathing Obiwan the evening before over him to remove his own filth and dressed in a somewhat clean tunic and leggings.

The dogs looked up when he headed for the door and he whistled for them. He stayed near the long house while the dogs did their business and then shut them back inside with a gesture to guard Obiwan. He would feed the animals later. There was a reckoning to be made.

Villagers watched, some following, as Quigon made his way to the large house of the Chun family. A man roughly in his mid-twenties watched Quigon approach apprehensively. Quigon thought it must be Garen, the family slave. He didn’t look like Bruck or well-treated.

“Get your master,” he said in an authoritative tone.

Garen nodded deferentially and disappeared within the house. There was a bellow of anger, followed by the sounds of someone being beaten, causing Quigon to push his way into the house. Sifo was right behind him, Quigon noted with relief. They found Garen prone on the floor, whimpering and being kicked by the master of the house.

“Stop!” shouted Quigon, dragging the irate man from the slave. “I see your son gets his abuse of his lessers honestly,” he added scathingly.

“Who are you to judge me?” snarled the Chun patriarch. “What right have you to come into my home and assault me? Who are you?”

Quigon and Sifo exchanged astonished glances. Sifo spoke. “This Jarl Quigon Yanson, known as the Jinn, _níðingr_. Watch your mouth and your manners or you’ll be finding somewhere else to live.”

Quigon belatedly remembered Bruck’s father’s name was Sverre, which seemed appropriate as it meant ‘wild’. Introducing Quigon elicited nothing but another sneer and a kick at the slave at his feet.

Quigon, standing tall above the man, grabbed him by his tunic and hauled him in close. “Kick him again and I’ll kick _you_. See how _you_ like it,” he threatened softly. He then let go, adding a push to send the other stumbling back. “Where is that _griss_ you call a son?”

“Which one?” Sverre was more wary now, little pig eyes wildly looking for escape in his own home. Bile rose in Quigon’s throat. No honor in the entire family apparently.

“The one who almost killed my thrall yesterday,” Quigon advised.

Sverre sneered at him. “Heard you did that yourself, throwing such a puny thing in the river.”

Sifo stopped Quigon’s punch, grabbing him by the elbow as the giant’s arm swung back. Sverre squealed like the piglet Quigon called his son and stumbled back another pace.

Sifo pushed a fuming Quigon behind him. “We are holding a local ϸing in two days’ time. Word is being sent to the other islands for those who wish to attend. I suggest you and what you call a family come up with a good reason for us not to outlaw you. Your son has been the bane of this village since you arrived, we’re told, and when complaints come to you, you berate and abuse those people. Be a man, foreign concept though that may be to you, and either answer for your shortcomings or give us a damned good reason to not shove you out on the smallest boat we can find without oar or sail.”

Sifo shoved Quigon out of the hovel that passed for the Chun household, paused and added almost cheerfully, “Good day.” When Sifo slammed the door shut, it hung haphazardly on its hinges.

“The slave,” Quigon rasped, his anger unabated.

Sifo rolled his eyes, reentered the hovel, and emerged with Garen in tow. The slave’s face was a mass of bruises and his arm hung at an odd angle. He also stood hunched, likely from bruised or broken ribs. Both Quigon and Sifo growled distastefully at the slave’s condition and walked him straight to Adi’s house.

She took one look at Garen and mothered him in, clucking like a hen. The two warriors left the thrall to her ministrations. It appeared their healer was going to be owed a lot for her services of late.

“Filth,” spat Sifo, staring back at the Chun home in disgust.

“Explains Bruck, though,” Quigon groused. “When there’s no honor to be held as an example, one rarely has it himself.”

“How fares Obiwan?” asked Sifo, changing the subject a bit.

“Better,” Quigon reported. “The fever has broken but his sleep is still deep and disturbed.”

“Take care of your animals and him today, Quigon,” Sifo said, slapping his friend on the back in sympathy. “Strong as your back is, it is bowing right now under worry and concern. We can do without you for a day or two.”

Quigon did as he was bid. He entered his long house to find Tahl gently washing Obiwan’s face, humming a song Quigon remembered their mother singing to them when they were ill as children. Without comment, he cleaned the stalls, strew about fresh straw where needed, fed and watered the animals, and then threw a couple of large logs on the central hearth. There he found a slightly congealed bowl of porridge and a heavy honey mead. He consumed them both before making his way to his sister’s side.

“How is he?” he asked.

“Much better,” she reported with a smile. “He woke not too long ago and was aghast to be in your bed.”

Quigon felt a twinge of concern at that. “I felt it better to keep him with me as we slept. Shared warmth,” he added lamely, ignoring his sister’s knowing expression.

“I assured him that was why he was here,” she replied. Her hands reached up and cupped Quigon’s bearded jaw. “Careful, brother mine,” she cautioned. “Your heart is showing.”

“Am I not allowed to have one?” he asked plaintively.

“For a wife, yes. For a friend, yes. For family, yes. A thrall?” She stopped at that.

“He has always been more than that to me,” Quigon told her hoarsely.

“I know.” Quigon could tell there was more she wanted to say.

“Speak your peace, sister. You’ve never held your tongue before.”

“The ϸing. They will demand to know why Obiwan gets special treatment as a slave. It’s all over the village that you originally intended to make him your bedmate. It’s also apparent you haven’t.”

Quigon considered this a moment. “Does it matter? Is it anyone’s business?”

“Well, no, but I guarantee you that the Chuns will twist it to make it seem you have done some ill, something besmirching your honor. The old man squeals like a pig when faced with someone with true strength, but he is a weasel. Even Loki can’t outlie him.” Her tone was a warning and Quigon heeded it.

“Noted, my smart sister,” he said sincerely. “If he’s the weasel, I shall have to be the fox, rather than the wolf.”

“Either are good aspirations,” she teased slightly. “Each cunning in its own way. The fox run solitary, though, the wolf in packs. You are more wolf than fox, dear brother, so I suggest you gather your pack to foil the weasel.”

Quigon immediately began to tally allies throughout the islands who could stand up and declare Quigon’s worth. That he had led many from this island and beyond in battle and in peace would speak volumes as well. Those with corruptible hearts would need to be reminded of his deeds versus whatever deceits the Chuns fouled the air with.

Brother and sister sat in companionable silence, broken only by Obiwan’s occasional moans, snufflings, and shifting about. The animals were quiet, as if sensing the humans needed the peace. Only the occasional footfall or creak of wood from the pens came from that end of the long house.

The siblings were brought from their thoughts when the dogs all gave one loud, unison bark. Sifo entered after a brief call to do so and reported that indeed, the Chuns were already at work seeding doubt and lies throughout the village. They claimed their slave was stolen by Quigon forcibly and their son slandered as a whore by several others. Three heads met and began to plan their rebuttal. Sifo soon left to send out trusted messengers to the other island freemen.

“If Obiwan wakes he can give testimony as to Bruck’s treatment of him,” Quigon noted.

Tahl shook her head. “Only freeman may speak or give word at a ϸing, Quigon, you know that.”

Quigon growled. “Then it is my word against a spoiled brat regarding his behavior.”

“There were witnesses to Obiwan’s mistreatment,” Tahl said thoughtfully. “But as to your private run-ins with Bruck, yes, it will be your word against his.” She gave a grin. “Too bad you can’t duel him.”

“If it comes to it,” Quigon sighed. “We shall see what happens first. If I must go to Einarr for final judgement, so be it.” Tahl gave a chuckle and he knew what she was thinking. Going to Einarr would get the Chuns nothing. Einarr all but raised Quigon even though he was not much older himself. Quigon and Tahl’s father, Yan, had been aloof and uncaring of his familial duties. Gold was everything and the more Yan had, the better he liked it. It was fitting the greedy sonofabitch drowned with his gold, the ship so laden with it that one good wave during a storm capsized the long boat and sank it straight to the bottom of the sea.

Or so they were told. Not many mourned, especially his children.

Sifo returned late in the evening and Tahl fed both men. “We have a problem,” Sifo reported once the meal was done and mead was being passed around. “One I’m surprised Tahl hasn’t mentioned.”

Tahl arched an eyebrow at that but remained silent. She was bathing Obiwan’s bare chest with a soft cloth and warm water.

“Apparently Sverre is the local shipbuilder,” Sifo reported glumly.

Quigon frowned. “What happened to Arvid? And his sons? They live on the other side of the island. This place isn’t that big that we can’t use their skills.”

Tahl gave an almighty sigh. “I did indeed forget. Arvid died last winter. His two sons disappeared this past spring. Neither really wanted to be shipbuilders, anyway, as you well know. About a month after they left, the Chuns arrived. We haven’t needed new boats recently but they are highly skilled at repairing and keeping up what we have for the fishing fleet.”

Quigon cursed loud and long. Shipbuilding was a highly prized craft. Good ones were rare and people would put up with much to keep builders with those skills. He hadn’t paid attention since he hadn’t needed repairs when he was home. Emphasis on _when_ he was home, which hadn’t been often these past few years.

Sifo nodded and took a hefty swig of mead. “The general presumption is that they’ll put up with Chuns’ nonsense to keep their abilities handy. Most, though, if another came to challenge the Chuns’ place, would be happy to get rid of the Chuns for any other.”

Quigon grunted, mind turning. “Then this is how it plays out for now,” he decided. “At the ϸing, we will advise that the Chuns may remain for the winter. They will do their part for the village without complaint or conflict. If further issues arise, we will bring it up at the Alþing before Einarr. If the Chuns balk at this decision, we will exile them and either do without them or I will personally search for replacements before full winter sets in.” Quigon scowled. “I will not have my word, my place, or my honor challenged by these infernal pigs just because they have a useful skill.”

Sifo thought about it and belched. Tahl shook her head at Sifo’s poor manners. Quigon couldn’t help but give a small smile, as Sifo intended with his crudity.

“You may have a bit of an argument against exiling them so close to winter,” Tahl noted. “Especially as there is no guarantee you’ll be able to find replacements so quickly. You know as well as I that fishing is our prime source of meat in the winter months here, Quigon. You may have to swallow your anger and not cut off heads as you’d like for the good of the island’s inhabitants. The Chuns work with everyone, all the villages.”

“I know,” he said. “We will see what happens at the ϸing in three day’s time. If no compromise can be reached, then I’ll get drastic.” His eyes slanted to Obiwan. “How is he?”

“I dribbled more broth down his throat earlier,” she reported, brushing ginger hair from the lax face of her patient. “His fever is gone. He’s just in a healing sleep. I think he’ll wake soon.” She threw a teasing smile in his direction. “All those gods and Christian saints you prayed to last night worked.”

“I don’t care who did it, I’m just thankful for it,” Quigon returned.

Sifo handed Quigon the mead tankard they’d been sharing. “I’d best get back to my own home. “Liv is getting cantankerous in her old age. She did say she was glad as I that you decided not to go on anymore raids,” he added as he began walking to the front of the long house. “Apparently four sons are not enough. She says she wants a daughter now. I told her she’s too old.”

“Got smacked, did you?” called out Tahl. Sifo muttered something neither sibling caught and left. “I must go too,” Tahl told Quigon, handing him the washcloth. “Finish washing him, bundle him up and you both get some sleep.” She unerringly leaned down and pecked a kiss on his bearded cheek. “Good night, my brother.”

Quigon took no heed to her leaving and just watched the steady rise and fall of Obiwan’s chest. He’d noticed Obiwan’s body numerous times but the younger man always hurriedly dressed so Quigon never got time to actually study it.

The hair on the Scots chest was sparse but a darker red than on his head. A bit of a beard was growing in, giving Obiwan a rakish look. Normally the young man was fastidious about shaving. Quigon didn’t know why and didn’t feel it was his right to ask. In clothes, Obiwan looked slight, but Quigon could see defined, well-developed muscles born of hard labor and wielding a sword as he’d done during the raid that got him captured. He was small, true, but Obiwan was powerful in his own way.

Quigon ruminated that Obiwan reminded him of some of the Arabs he’d fought in Iberia. They were smaller than a Norseman but compact, quick, and dangerous. To judge them by their size got you killed. Since arriving on Rousay, there had been little time for weapons practice. Once Obiwan was back on his feet, Quigon would devote an hour each day to sparring with the Scots, check his mettle. Thralls were not allowed the honor of carrying a sword, so Qui-Gon would have to see what others Obiwan was familiar with. Slave the young man may be, but Quigon would not have him defenseless.

Quigon grinned despite himself. That would cause an uproar in the village, probably the whole island. Allowing a slave access to weapons and training him would be seen as the height of stupidity. Quigon, though, felt he could trust Obiwan, that his thrall had found some measure of contentment here. Obiwan now understood that Quigon was as good as his word. Obiwan might, perhaps, try an escape if an opportune time showed itself, but where would he go? Obiwan wasn’t stupid. His circumstances hadn’t changed much; just the location and culture were different.

Quigon’s jaw cracked on a yawn, so he did as Tahl bid, finished wiping Obiwan down, stripped himself, and settled between the heavy covers on his bed. He drew Obiwan tight against him, ignoring his growing erection at having the object of his desire so close. Quigon closed his eyes and settled into sleep.

Tomorrow would bring what tomorrow would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Níðingr – a person without honor  
> Griss – piglet


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! First, I corrected the chapter number for last chapter. I had it as five...when it was six. My apologies. Second, a kind Icelandic reader asked a very excellent question. Some of my spellings are slightly different from Icelandic spellings, which of course we all should know that Vikings were the original Icelandic colonists. So this begs the question, are the websites of historical reenactors and Viking enthusiasts spelling the words wrong, or are they using a different Nordic-based dialect? Norwegian, Swedish, or Danish, perhaps? Any readers from those backgrounds/countries that can weigh in? I'd love to know!
> 
> Now...on to the story!!!

Obiwan’s eyelids felt heavy and his mouth was full of dry wool. He tried to wet his lips but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate. He was warm, at least, heavy blankets and furs over him and a fire right up next to him.

He frowned. He shouldn’t be this close to a fire. Flinching away, he was further alarmed when some of the heavy blankets tightened around him and pulled him up close to the flames. It took his fuzzy brain a second to realize that it was an arm and that he was up tight against a body.

Obiwan’s eyes flew open and he tried to turn his head to see who was sleeping next to him but he had no energy. All he could do was loll his head a bit. Out of the corner of his vision he caught long braided hair with a tinge of silver in it.

Quigon. He was in bed with Quigon. The Norseman _promised_ he wouldn’t force Obiwan! He felt a bit of rage and disappointment swamp him.

Obiwan managed a squeaky sound and Quigon’s features, tight with worry, swam into view.

“Oh good, you’ve awakened. Here.” Quigon disappeared, shifted around, reappeared, and held up a tin cup. He lifted Obiwan’s head and torso into a sitting position and gave Obiwan a few swallows of blessedly warm, spiced liquid. He made a wordless protest when Quigon took the cup away. “You’ve been ill, Obiwan,” the big man said. “Take it easy. Are you hungry?”

He’d been ill? Obiwan tried to remember the past day or so and came up blank. He croaked inarticulately, wet his lips, and tried again. “Yes,” he managed to whisper.

Quigon gave him a broad, approving smile and slipped from the bed. The covers were immediately replaced with a practiced ease that told Obiwan that Quigon had done so many times before.

Hot coals lit the dimness, flaring to life as Quigon poked at them and tossed some small logs and twigs in the hearth. Obiwan drifted and started when Quigon lifted him again, a pottery bowl in hand full of nourishing broth. Obiwan drank greedily, slowing down only when Quigon forced him. Exhaustion hit him quickly, though, and he sagged.

Quigon let him lay back down and set the mostly empty bowl aside. A large hand brushed through Obiwan’s hair. “I am sorry, Obiwan.”

Obiwan looked in askance at Quigon. “Why?” he managed to say, his throat more lubricated from drink and broth.

  
“I dunked you in that cold stream to get the mud off you. It made you ill.”

The memories then flooded back to Obiwan: Bruck Chun confronting him as soon as he set foot outside the long house, the lewd taunting, Obiwan dodging Chun’s attempts to grapple him, his foot slipping in the mud and going down face first into the puddle.

The foot heavy on the back of his neck, pushing his face into the mud and water.

Unable to breath. Unable to call for help. The panic.

“By your law, can I kill him?” Obiwan rasped.

Quigon frowned. “No, but I could.”

“Do it.”

“I can’t.” Quigon sounded distinctly put out and then explained the importance of the Chun family not only to the village but the entire island, at least for the time being. “A meeting is being held tomorrow morning, to hold Bruck accountable for his actions, among other things. The village elders have agreed that the family will be warned about their behavior. Bruck isn’t the only transgressor. If their attitudes don’t improve by spring when we meet with King Einarr on the mainland, they will be exiled and we will find replacement shipbuilders to come.”

Obiwan figured this was as good as a slave was going to get and held his tongue. Something in his features must have given away his displeasure for Quigon gave his cheek a caress in solace.

“It’s not ideal, I agree, but we do what we must until better circumstances are presented. Can you sit up again?” Quigon changed the subject, distracting Obiwan from his woes with Bruck Chun.

Obiwan managed it, with a little bit of Quigon’s help, and leaned against the tall, carved headboard. Quigon bustled around, eating his own meal, and cleaning up after.

“Is it morning?” Quigon nodded. “How long was I unconscious?”

Quigon slanted him a glance. “This is the third day since your confrontation with Chun.”

Obiwan blinked in surprise. “I’m not that weak!” he protested.

Quigon gave a short laugh. “I never thought you were. Our healer said likely you’d had something before that none of us noticed. The cold of the stream and the fact I didn’t care for you properly right after your, um, bath just made the ailment worse.”

“I wasn’t sick before!” Obiwan exclaimed. “I swear it, Quigon. I’m hardly ever ill.”

Quigon gave him a speculative look. “Are you aware you sneeze around alfalfa?”

Obiwan opened his mouth to protest again and then snapped it shut. Quigon was right. Every time he worked the alfalfa fields, helping harvest the tall fodder grass, his nose got irritable and he sneezed some. It had always been that way.

“And that you started wheezing when the first frost came?”

Obiwan scowled at Quigon, unable to argue that either.

“I’m not saying you are some delicate flower, to be cossetted and pampered,” Quigon said matter-of-factly. “Just that you have some quirks to your health others do not. Sifo swells up like a fattened pig when he eats oysters. He says it’s proof that oysters are not a warrior’s food.”

Obiwan grumped at that, slightly mollified, and settled back more comfortably. “What do I do now?” he asked in an almost plaintive voice.

“Rest today. Though you cannot give testimony against a freeman at the ϸing tomorrow morning, I can refer to you. There were witnesses to your confrontation with Bruck Chun. The family has not endeared themselves to this village nor the other island villages either.” Quigon gave Obiwan a sharp, piercing look, those blue eyes looking deep inside Obiwan’s soul. “I want you there looking as pathetic as possible. Though some of your condition is of my own doing, the original damage was not. Chun’s actions brought me to my own ill-advised actions. And,” Quigon gave a reassuring smile, “you’ve commended yourself well to everyone with your able, willing assistance and by not being troublesome.”

Obiwan sensed there was something more. “And?”

Quigon paused, as if weighing his words. “Sifo and I took the Chun’s slave, Garen Muln, from them. They’d been beating him, not feeding him properly, and in general treating him worse than a carrion eater does its scavenged meal. I want to use _you_ as an example of a well-treated, trusted thrall versus how the Chuns treat Garen.” Quigon’s mouth twisted into a snarl beneath the mustache and beard. “No one has thought it strange about Garen’s ill treatment. I want to get him away from his current owners, even if I have to overpay for him.”

“So I’m an example and a pity case,” mused Obiwan. “What else?”

“You’ve never seen Garen around because they don’t let him leave their house and its immediate environs,” Quigon told him. “That has caused some ill-will with the village. He’s a potential laborer when we need everyone working for the coming winter. Befriend him, if I can get him away. Show him that we’re not all monsters and abusers.”

Quigon stood and walked to the bed. A big hand cupped Obiwan’s cheek in a gentle manner, thumb brushing Obiwan’s bottom lip. “I said I wouldn’t push, I wouldn’t coerce, and I stand by that promise. However, I ask, until you are fully recovered and I can get Eeth Koth to finish constructing your bed, sleep with me? It will keep you warm, it will be much more comfortable, and I will be assured of your continuing improved health.”

Those ocean blue eyes were wide and beseeching and Obiwan involuntarily found himself nodding agreement. “Yes,” he replied, “all right.”

Relief relaxed Quigon’s features and, after a moment’s hesitation, the big Viking brushed a soft feathery kiss on Obiwan’s lips. “Thank you.”

Quigon left him there, hustling animals out the door that needed to be out and whistling for the dogs to join him. There was a crush of man and beast trying to exit but it soon cleared and the door closed firmly behind them.

Only then did Obiwan touch his lips. They tingled from that light kiss. It wasn’t his first but it wasn’t far from it. He knew Quigon desired him. The giant Norseman made that clear from their first meeting. With their cohabitation, Obiwan saw appreciation of his body and his wit in equal measure from Quigon. No pressure, as Quigon promised all those weeks ago, was made to force Obiwan into a sexual relationship.

Obiwan had been thinking of it, however. It niggled on his mind for some time, this attraction he felt for the pagan brute. He had not expected his jealousy a few days ago when he’d spotted Bruck Chun all but humping Quigon’s leg like some bitch in heat. Seeing the vile freeman’s hands on Quigon, teasing and trying to seduce, and hearing the pathetic bleating from Chun trying to get Quigon to fuck him made Obiwan want to rip Chun’s head off his shoulders.

Seeing the scene made Obiwan realize that he was as possessive and protective of Quigon as the Viking was of Obiwan. He wanted Quigon, accepted it in that moment and going forward, but hadn’t the slightest idea how to articulate it.

Now, due to an unforeseen illness, Obiwan was in Quigon’s bed and looked to be there for some unknowable future. Obiwan settled back under the covers and began to scheme on how to seduce a Viking who probably wouldn’t need much seduction at all without compromising his own sense of honor.

* * *

The meeting in the morning found Obiwan slightly shaky physically but firm in his resolve to stand as an honorable man, thrall though he may be. He stood next to Tahl, her reassuring strength a bolster as man after man came forward to offer complaint, request, or compliment to Quigon. As essentially the highest ranking of the island’s inhabitants, Quigon was the judicial as well as governmental figurehead and arbiter.

When a man who distinctly reminded Obiwan of a weasel all but stomped before the group, Tahl tensed. “Keep silent,” she bade him in a low voice. “That is Sverre Chun, Bruck’s father.”

“I have a grievance to air before the ϸing!” Chun’s voice was loud but whiny. It made Obiwan wince along with several others in the congregation.

“State the issue and we will see if it can be resolved,” Quigon intoned as he had several times before that morning.

“ _Jarl_ Quigon Yanson and his _himthiki_ Sifo Dyas entered my home, abused me physically, slandered my youngest son, and stole my slave!” Chun shouted angrily, pointing an accusing finger at Quigon and then Sifo. “I demand retribution and compensation for our dishonor!”

There were a few murmurs from those in the huge circle but it seemed less than Chun was hoping, for his face turned an alarming shade of angry red and his mouth opened to spew forth more accusations. Quigon lifted an imperious hand and Chun snapped his mouth closed mutinously.

“Your son has twice, before witnesses, attacked my thrall. He has, conveniently when there are no witnesses, made shameful approaches to me that confirm to me that he has no honor or pride. Your slave, Garen Muln, is still healing from three broken ribs, a fractured cheek bone, and blood bursts in his left eye that you gave him because he was sent by myself and Sifo Dyas to tell you that you had visitors outside your door not two days past.”

Chun’s mouth opened, his face twisted into a snarl, but was immediately forestalled by what looked like hulking twins to Obiwan moving out of the audience. “May we speak, Jarl Quigon Jinn, regarding these accusations you make against the Chun family?”

“You may, Ulf and Arne Frodeson.” Quigon waved them further into the assembly.

The two men stepped forward to the speaking center, completely ignoring Sverre Chun, and the other twin spoke. “I am Arne Frodeson,” he declared in a loud, fierce voice. “Many of you knew my father, Frode, taught under the tutelage of Yoda, high priest to King Einarr. When our father passed this last spring, we asked, and paid for, a boat to send him off properly. We chose the trees that would be cut and was assured by Sverre Chun that it would be accomplished and delivered in a fortnight.”

Chun stepped forward to protest but Quigon gave him a hard look that stopped his words.

“As many of you know, it was not delivered, nor were we reimbursed for services not rendered. Good gold, not goods, were paid to him. Our father’s pyre was not as he requested, a boat like he’d long sailed in, his last resting place along with the flames. We had to make do with a bare platform and the little goods we could then afford to add. Sverre Chun refused to return our payment and when we came to request redress, he heaped abuse upon us. He spat at us and shouted foul language. Once he thrust his sword at Ulf to force us from his home. Sverre Chun is without honor, we can testify. That his son shares this lack of honor shocks us not at all.” Arne stepped back and Ulf stepped forward to speak next.

“Bruck Chun is a cur and acts like a bitch dog in heat. If Loki appeared as a mare as the trickster did for the giant’s stallion, Bruck would have fucked him without any concern. He’d likely have been pissed because the stallion fucked Loki and not himself. Jarl Jinn’s mention of Bruck’s attempt at,” and here Ulf sneered, “seduction is not unknown to me. The boy has tried to tempt me to fuck him as well, saying he would be well worth the reimbursement his father owes us for paid work not done.”

Obiwan swept his gaze around the assembly. Many he didn’t know, having come from other villages on the island and some from other islands close by. The crude language seemed to shock no one and there was disgust on many faces. He relaxed a bit.

Quigon tapped a finger on the arm of his chair set at the head of the outdoor assembly. “That makes two accusations to Bruck Chun’s dishonorable intent to whore himself out to other freemen. Are there any others?”

Four more men stepped forward and Sverre Chun went purple in the face. Quigon forestalled any speech and said merely, “By stepping forward you confirm you too have been recipients of Bruck Chun’s advances, yes?”

The four men nodded and then moved back when motioned to do so.

“We will deal with the accusations one at a time,” Quigon announced. “First, Sverre Chun has been accused by a well-respected family in our community of charging gold for a funeral boat, reneging on the purchased labor, and then refusing to reimburse the payment. The accusation stands that Sverre Chun has heaped abuse upon those he has wronged, verbal and physical. Are there witnesses to these accusations or others who have similar experiences?”

Two more men marched forward with grim expression, offered their witness testimony to some of the Frodeson twins’ futile encounters with Chun. One young man, younger than Obiwan perhaps, though it was difficult to tell with that heavy black beard, stated he too had been charged gold for a fishing boat repair that was never done nor was he reimbursed for the services not rendered.

Chun’s weasel black eyes darted around nervously and he licked his lips often. Obiwan thought he looked like he was a trapped rabbit. Knowing little of the Norsemen’s judicial system, the Scotsman couldn’t tell what would happen. Things were stacking against Chun, though, that seemed certain.

“Accusations have been made and substantiated,” Quigon called out over muted mutterings. “Does anyone stand for Sverre Chun?”

“He is skilled,” hedged an uncertain voice to Quigon’s far right. “Winter is closing in. We have not the time to find someone to replace him.”

There were more mutters. Someone else, to Obiwan’s left, spoke up next. “I say the Chuns stay on probation through winter. If they seek to rehabilitate their reputation and play fair with us, they can remain after the spring comes. If not, we exile them and look for another shipbuilder elsewhere. The Chuns must be useful members of our island community, without complaint and with fair dealings, or they leave willingly or by force.”

Quigon nodded. “It should be noted by all, King Einarr as called a Alϸing in the spring at his hall. All freemen are welcome. He wishes to introduce his new bride properly to us and perhaps a child by then,” Quigon quirked a grin that caused a few bits of laughter, “and of course, run through judgements and plans for our society. The exact time has not been stated, just next spring perhaps around Góublót.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, which earned him more laughter.

Obiwan resolved to ask Quigon or Tahl what Góublót was.

Quigon turned his attention back to the Chun patriarch. “Will you stand by this decision or do you leave before the waters ice over?”

“What about these slanders against my son?” yowled Sverre. “And my slave? You stole my slave! How am I to do any work if you have my labor?”

There was a good bit of stirring in the crowd at this. Obiwan couldn’t figure out why at first but Quigon’s next words cleared it up for him.

“Are you saying your thrall, Garen, does your work, not you? That you cannot do the boat repairs or ship building you claim to have skills for because the slave does it for you?”

Chun’s face turned sullen and he muttered something Obiwan didn’t think anyone could hear.

“Speak like a man, not an otter!” snapped Quigon, now losing patience. “Your thrall is not fit to lift a water bucket at the moment due to the treatment he received at your hands. Purchased him you may have. Captured him even, perhaps. Earned him, I assure this assembly, you have not. Obiwan Kenobi, step forward!”

Jolted at his name being called, Obiwan did as he was bid, looking about nervously.

“This is my thrall, Ben Kenobi, captured just a few months past in Albia. He fought fiercely and with honor, though his own family was long dead and he served the man who likely had killed them. Despite his recent illness, both the blame of myself and Bruck Chun, Obiwan has not shirked his labor skills. He does not need to be beaten to be useful. He has mended fences, rooves, reaped grain, and even helped butcher an animal or two for the winter stores. Many of you know I can’t cook worth a damn,” more chuckles echoed, “so he has even taken over the cooking in my house.”

“And warms your bed,” sneered Chun as if he couldn’t stop himself.

“Obiwan, though you are not allowed to speak, you may answer by the movement of your head,” Quigon countered smoothly. “Have I forced you into sexual acts?” Obiwan shook his head. “Have I forced you into anything that would compromise the honor you were raised with?” Again, Obiwan shook his head. “Have I beaten or abused you, or made you go without, in punishment for things I did not like?” Obiwan felt like he was just moving his head back and forth like some demented doll. “Though a thrall in our society, do you feel valued and accepted?”

Here Obiwan could change the motion of his head and he did so, emphatically nodding and gave Quigon a low, respectful bow.

“You may step back, Obiwan.” Quigon turned to Sverre with a sneer upon his face now. “Can your slave, Garen Muln, claim the same, Sverre Chun?”

“He’s a slave,” spat Chun. “His wants and needs are nothing. He does what he is told or he dies.” Chun looked around triumphantly, as if he’d gotten a leg up on Quigon but instead he only met the cold, disapproving eyes of his peers.

“I put before the assembly,” Quigon said in loud, ringing tones that cut over all the noise, “that Garen Muln be taken from Sverre Chun and his brood in recompense for the services they were paid to do with good, hard-won gold. Once Garen is healed and able to again be productive, he belongs to the village, a man of all trades, if you will.”

There was a general muttering about that, but Obiwan didn’t think it was favorable.

“Or I purchase Garen Muln for one goat to the Chuns and will reimburse the gold to those the Chuns short-shifted from my own wealth. Muln will belong to me and will be treated with the same honor that Obiwan here has been treated.”

This seemed a better proposition to most. There was a lot of general conversation as the situation presented was debated hotly.

Sverre Chun, however, was having none of it. “I demand a law speaker to make judgement of the legality of this!” he all but screamed, enraged.

The entire assembly went silent. There was a snicker followed by chuckles here and there, ending with fully blown laughter from almost everyone.

Sifo stepped right in front of Chun and said calmly, “That would have been Frode, fool, whom you took gold from his family and refused to honor your agreement to build his funerial boat. You think _he_ would argue in your favor, considering you didn’t care if he went to the other world with honor and stole gold from his sons?” Sifo gave Chun a disgusted look and turned his back on him to walk away, an obvious insult. “Idiot,” he added loudly.

“Anyone else have issue with one of these choices?” Quigon asked mildly.

Ulf Frodeson stepped forward once more. “Purchase his slave for a goat. Make it a poor one at that. But I say give the thrall Garen Muln to your sister.” There was a hint of a blush on the man’s cheeks above a reddish-blond beard that made Obiwan think there was a bit of a lovestruck feeling going on. “Tahl is far from helpless despite her lack of sight, but no doubt the extra hands would be welcome to her.”

Obiwan slanted a glance at Tahl, who looked taken aback. When the assembly voted, it voted in favor of Ulf’s suggestion. By the time the long afternoon ended, Tahl had a slave, the Chuns the sickliest goat Quigon owned, and the ship builder’s family was told that if they had an issue with the local þing ‘s decision, they could leave or take it up with King Einarr and his assembly at the Alþing next year.

It was clear Quigon was exhausted when he and Obiwan entered the long house. They nibbled on a bit of leftovers and Quigon had Obiwan tucked into bed after a quick wash off with warmed water in a big bowl.

When Quigon stretched out next to Obiwan, the younger man hesitated, then tucked himself in close to the long, rangy body, head nestled beneath a heavily bearded chin.

Quigon stilled. “Obiwan?” came the hushed, almost hopeful question.

“I’ve never, with a man,” Obiwan said hesitantly. “But perhaps I’d like to. One day.”

He knew Quigon understood when he was swept up into a fierce kiss, bristly beard rubbing against his own clean-shaven face. “Rushing is bad,” Quigon rumbled contentedly, once the kissing ceased. “We have all winter to figure it out.”

“You are an honorable man, Quigon Jinn,” Obiwan yawned. “I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Góublót – “Wife’s Day” – on the first day of the Norse month of Góa, which was mid-February to mid-March – the Norse version of Mother’s Day, I guess?
> 
> Himithiki – an elite soldier, but bottom of the rung elite soldier, I used it as an insult against Sifo from Sverre, as Sifo is obviously an elite warrior from a noble lineage and not bottom of anything. Sverre's just a crusty, cowardly low-down...(cough)
> 
> Yes, I made Obiwan human with physical flaws. I know, I know. There's something wrong with me. I made him a bit like me, actually. I hate the cold and I already have the electric blanket on my bed. I don't about alfalfa allergies but I am allergic to ragweeds. And it does make a bit of sense that Obiwan might have caught something low-level coming into a new society with its own germs and not know it, with Quigon dunking him a cold stream just the shock to the system needed for it to go full-bore.


	9. Chapter 9

Garen Muln was sullen and resentful, Obiwan soon learned. No one blamed the young man and he never showed any outward rebellion but it was there in his eyes, the downturn of his mouth and the tenseness of his body. Obiwan’s initial attempts at befriending Garen received terse responses and a turned back.

A week after the local meeting, Garen was moved to Tahl’s home. Obiwan had never been inside Tahl’s small abode and was startled to see a young girl with wide brown eyes staring at him from a corner. It took him a moment to realize this was Bant. He’d never put a familial connection between the two before.

“Hello, Bant!” he called out congenially to the young woman who was almost his own age. He nodded at Garen, who was looking around his new home warily. “This is Garen. He’s come to help.”

Bant squinted at both young men and came out of her shadowy corner. She stepped right up to Garen, looked him up at down consideringly, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You need new clothes. We’ll get Yaddle to make you some. Mother is abysmal at sewing and I find it boring. Can you cook?”

Taken aback at such forthrightness, Garen gave a hesitant nod.

“Oh good,” Bant said with relief. “I think that’s boring too. Mother always puts the wrong herbs in even though everyone knows she can smell them just fine.”

“Probably got her cooking skills from Quigon,” laughed Obiwan. Bant joined in on the joke. Garen’s amber-brown eyes darted from one to the other, as if not certain how to take the conversation. Obiwan was a thrall. Bant was born of a free family. Such getting along was at odds, no doubt, with his knowledge of such relationships with the Chun family.

Tahl brushed inside the house and clucked in a motherly fashion. “Why is Garen not sitting?” she demanded. “He needs more rest, Bant, Obiwan. He’s far from well. Garen, sit. Bant, bring him something to eat. He needs a full stomach before taking what smells like the foulest of potions Adi has ever made.”

Garen grimaced but did as he was bid, gingerly sitting down on the other side of the small central hearth. Obiwan was heartened when Garen opened his mouth to ask questions, though he was dismayed at the topic.

“Two women living here alone? Is your husband raiding? I could kill you both and be gone before anyone the wiser.”

Tahl didn’t miss a beat, however. “You have somewhere to go, Garen, once you’ve murdered us in our sleep? A way off the island, through all the Orkneyjar, and to safety where you won’t be hunted like a deer?”

“Whatever punishment your brother would mete out would be worth it,” he muttered in a low tone, not expecting anyone to hear him.

Tahl’s voice was just as soft. “Would it?” Unerringly, Tahl made her way to her new slave and brushed hair from his face, mapping it with her fingers as she had Obiwan on their first meeting. “Despite those bumps and bruises, you are a handsome man, Garen. Young, full of energy and life, and more than worthy of a family of your own.”

He interrupted her angrily. “I’m a slave! I’ll never have that, because I’ll be too busy keeping _you_ satisfied in bed or working like a dog to make you wealthy!”

“You won’t always be a slave,” she noted with a bit of dryness to her tone. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

“You don’t free slaves,” he said scornfully.

As Obiwan was under the same impression he was just as surprised as Garen when Bant piped up. “Slaves are freed all the time. We call them freedmen. You won’t be a slave, but neither will you be a full Norseman either. You can be whoever Garen Muln needs to be.”

Garen and Obiwan shared tense, shocked looks before Obiwan ventured, “So how does this freedom of slaves happen?”

“In a master’s will, by the master’s decree, or you can even buy your freedom from your master with a contracted, agreed upon price,” Tahl told him.

Dumbfounded, Obiwan just said, “Oh.”

Tahl continued in a conversational vein. “Quigon rarely keeps a thrall more than two or three years. But then, usually he’s out on raids. Since he’s said he will raid no more, I don’t know if he’ll keep to that habit. Probably, yes, though.” She turned to Garen, her focus sure despite her disability. “As for my husband, he died three winters ago. His boat capsized while fishing. Before anyone could get to him, he’d succumb to the freezing waters and drowned. Though we mourn him as proper, I’m not helpless, nor is Bant. Rest assured, Garen Muln, I can take care of myself, my daughter, and if something should happen, you as well.” She arched an eyebrow. “Take that as a reassurance or a threat as you like. Now eat that.” She shoved some dried fish in his hands and stood up.

Tahl drew Obiwan aside and, with her usual uncanny way, said, “You didn’t know you could be free, did you.” It wasn’t a question but Obiwan answered anyway.

“No.”

She blew out a breath of exasperation. “My brother is an idiot,” she stated baldly but then her expression turned shrewd. “Or maybe he doesn’t want you to leave.”

Obiwan knew where this was going and changed the subject. “Will you be all right here? He seems very angry. Strong you might be but can you overpower him if you have to?”

Her expression told him that she was allowing the change in topic for now but she replied, “Of course he’s angry. Wouldn’t you be, had you been in his position? I think, no, I _know_ that he doesn’t blame me, or Bant. He knows where the blame lies. It’s keeping him from killing the Chuns when I make him a freedman that has me worried.”

Obiwan was again surprised. “You plan on freeing him?”

Tahl gave him a surprised look in return. “Well, of course!” she said in a near-haughty tone. “He will still be beholden to me, and Quigon as head of the family, but he will be free.” Her expression softened and those gentle hands cupped Obiwan’s cheek. “Don’t worry, mean little dog, Quigon will free you too, or he’ll know my wrath,” she said teasingly.

There was a ruckus behind Tahl and she and Obiwan turned toward it. Bant was backing away, hands out in a non-threatening gesture while Garen was backing up on hands and feet, pain awash on his face and blood seeping through the right side of his threadbare tunic.

“Mother,” Bant began but was silenced when Tahl made a slashing motion indicating quiet.

“Why are you bleeding, Garen?” Tahl’s voice asked gently, compelling the slave to confide in her.

Obiwan, though, had his suspicions. “When I went to bring him here, Bruck Chun was walking away from him,” the Scotsman reported grimly. “He was putting something back on his belt. I didn’t think anything of it. Garen doesn’t belong to the Chuns anymore.”

Before Garen could so much as flinch, Tahl was on him, rolling him to his left side so that the right was exposed. There, hidden in the voluminous folds of a shirt that was way too big for him, Garen’s side was bleeding. Before it had been held in check by a tightly cinched belt. Sitting had moved the belt and the bleeding began to show and worsen.

Tahl’s nostrils flared at the iron tang of blood. It was potent. Even from halfway across the small house Obiwan could smell it as well.

“Did Bruck Chun hurt you in retaliation?” she demanded, even as she rent the tunic open to reveal a deep and nasty wound. By Obiwan’s reckoning, Garen was lucky the knife wound hadn’t punctured any major organs.

“Mistress,” gasped Garen, tears in his eyes as she lightly probed the wound.

“Answer me!” she snapped. “Did Bruck Chun stab you in revenge?”

“Yes!” cried out Garen as she shifted him into a position that allowed her to more ably access the wound.

“Obiwan, fetch Quigon. Bant, go for Adi. Both of you, hurry, now!” Tahl commanded.

Obiwan allowed Bant out the small door first and then pelted for the long house. Panic gripped Obiwan, making him run as fast as he could. The long shadows of night made him edgy. Bruck Chun could leap out of the darkness and kill him, he just knew it. The few windows the lengthy building had were alight, a beacon of safety. Obiwan knew that meant Quigon had company. It also meant he and whoever he entertained might not be sober. Mead was no doubt flowing from mouth to mouth.

This wasn’t going to be pleasant. Quigon could be a little on the dim side with a goodly amount of mead in his belly. As Obiwan got closer to the long house he could hear singing that was definitely inebriated.

Obiwan burst inside, startling a couple of ducks into indignant quacks and a ruffle of feathers. A rousing chorus was beginning when he all but screamed over it, “Bruck Chun has stabbed Garen Muln! Bant has gone for a healer. Tahl is trying to stem the blood!”

Quigon blearily looked at him, as did Sifo Dyas, Eeth Koth and a couple other Norse warriors. It was obvious Obiwan’s announcement hadn’t sunk in, for Quigon stumbled to his feet and waved a hand toward the corner Obiwan used to sleep before his illness. A new bed stood where his pallet had been.

“Look! A fine bed!” Quigon leered at him. “When you need it.” There was a round of drunken laughter.

“Quigon!” Obiwan shouted, desperation and fear angering him. He picked up an empty crock and threw it at his master. “Whatever god you worship that makes you drunk better sober you up. Did you not hear me? Bruck Chun stabbed Garen Muln in revenge! You are Jarl! Do something about it!”

Quigon barely managed to dodge the pottery container, his expression darkening, not at Obiwan’s words but his actions. To Obiwan’s increased frustration, the big brute understood not a damned word he’d spoken.

“You’ll pay for that,” growled Quigon, lurching forward, only just missing the roaring hearth fire he and his cronies sat around.

When Quigon got close enough, Obiwan easily dodged the Viking’s reach and gave him a good kick in the ass when Quigon stumbled by. “Are you so drunk,” Obiwan demanded with a taunt, “that you leave your sister unprotected? Your niece? That the slave you paid good solid gold and a worthless goat for may be dying from a stab wound from those you rescued him from?”

Quigon roared and whirled around, but Obiwan dodged him again. “You aren’t a man,” snapped Obiwan, now overcome with rage at the big man’s obtuseness. “You’re a coward. You hide behind words made from the same honey as your mead. If you won’t protect your family and their thrall, then _I_ will!”

Nimbly sidestepping the mindless bull lurching at him, Obiwan made his way to where Quigon hung his swords and other weapons. Quigon’s swords were too big for Obiwan…but the mace was not. He pulled the weapon from its hanging bar, hefted it once to make sure he could handle it fine, and marched back toward the front of the long house.

The sight of Obiwan with a weapon brought Quigon’s cronies to their senses. What at first had been a game and then an insult finally penetrated their inebriated brains that something serious was happening. A thrall, without fear, grabbing one of his master’s weapons and going off to do battle sobered them quick as you please. Sifo, especially, had cause to know that Obiwan was trained in warfare and likely knew how to use the weapon.

Sifo pulled Quigon aside, the large Viking still fuming at what he perceived as Obiwan’s rebelliousness. “Guard Tahl’s home,” Quigon’s second-in-command told the thrall briskly. “We’ll sober up this _brusi_ and join you soon. No one but the healer in, do you understand?”

Obiwan nodded, ignoring Quigon’s drunken rage, and stalked out the door. He made his way in the pitch darkness, feeling a great deal better now that he was well armed, back to Tahl’s home where he placed himself as sentinel outside. He called loud enough for those within to hear, “I stand outside as guard, Tahl. Per Sifo Dyas’ orders none but the healer may enter.”

“She is already here, Obiwan,” Tahl called back. He heard her footsteps approach the door.

“How fares Garen?” Obiwan asked a bit quieter since he knew she was close.

“The knife hit flesh but nothing else,” she reported. There was a pause, a sigh, and Tahl added, “I wish he trusted us enough to report the injury.”

“You understand why he doesn’t, don’t you?” Obiwan said with no small amount of bitterness.

“Yes,” came the affirmative reply, “but I don’t have to like it. We’re not all monsters, Obiwan, just different in our own ways.”

“Tam multa ut puta genera linguarum sunt in mundo et nihil sine voce est,” Obiwan said.

There was silence. “You speak Latin?” Tahl sounded surprised.

Obiwan gave a small smile, peering into the dark around the now well-lit home. “My former master said stupidity was the downfall of many a man. He would not have me ignorant if he could help it.”

“What does it mean?”

Sifo Dyas approached with a torch and a slightly swaying, dripping Quigon. Sifo must have dunked Quigon in water until he came to his senses. Obiwan glared at both men and hiked his chin up defiantly. “’So many different languages in the world and none of them are meaningless.’ First Corinthians Verse 14, Line 10.”

“No truer words have been spoken,” Tahl returned. “When my good for nothing brother gets here –“

“I’m here, Tahl,” Quigon said grumpily.

Obiwan turned his head away dismissively but out of the corner of his eye he saw Quigon’s scowl at the rudeness.

“You sound drunk. Just what I need,” Tahl groused as her voice moved from the door. “Let the ingrate in, Obiwan. He’s all we’ve got for the moment.”

Obiwan stepped aside but was jerked to Quigon when the big man went to move past. “Do not offer insult to me again,” he growled.

“Then act like a man who has concern for _all_ his people,” snapped Obiwan. He jerked his arm from Quigon’s grasp. “I thank _my_ God the bed is finished, otherwise I’d be sleeping on the floor once more.”

Quigon’s countenance darkened at that but he ducked through the door without reply.

“You’re still sharing his bed?” Sifo asked quietly when the rumbling of Quigon’s voice, the soprano of Adi the healer, and Tahl’s strident alto rose in argument.

Obiwan blushed but gave one terse nod.

“There’s no shame in it, boy,” Sifo told him. “Is he satisfying you?”

Obiwan looked up in alarm. “We aren’t…” he fumbled for a polite word and failed.

Sifo gave a snort of laughter. “So that’s why he’s so damned grumpy. He’s got you in his bed and there’s still nothing happening! I don’t know which of you is the bigger fool.”

The two of them waited until the moon was directly overhead for Quigon to emerge. His face was set like stone and even in the light of the torch Sifo still held, his eyes glittered with displeasure and a hint of malice.

“Obiwan, stay here. Sifo, come. The Chuns have been warned. They have broken their word once more. It is done.”

Sifo grunted and followed the Jarl of Rousay Island from home to home, rousing the master of each household for immediate counsel. Obiwan could hear murmurs, then shouts of anger, and the number of torches went from Sifo’s one to many. All eventually headed to the Chun home at the edge of the village.

Obiwan waited for all hell to break loose. He didn’t have to wait long.

There were outraged shouts, then unintelligible screaming, followed by a surprising feminine wail of anguish that put Obiwan’s teeth on edge. His mind flashed to Ma’s body, hearing village women screaming while he was in the cellar, and later as he fought to protect Master Fisto’s village. He wondered if the Chun family was being butchered. He wanted to run, though to protect the low-belly family from destruction or away from the noise that made his head hurt with remembrances, Obiwan didn’t know.

He jumped like a scalded cat when a hand touched his elbow. He whirled around and saw Bant looking at him mournfully. “He asks to speak with you,” she murmured.

“Who?” Obiwan was confused, his mind racing with jumbled images.

“Garen.”

The present rushed back and his thoughts became clear again. “Of course,” Obiwan said, disregarding completely he was to play door guard. He ducked in and went straight to the other thrall.

Garen was lying on a pallet, his torso wrapped in tight bandages of clean, cut-up linens. He looked more awake than Obiwan thought he should be. Did the healer not give Garen any pain reliever?

“You are a thrall like me,” Garen muttered when Obiwan settled next to him.

“I am.”

“I only know what I hear from my mas- I mean, my former master and his sons. You sleep with the Jarl?”

“Sleep only. He gave his word not to use me sexually and he has kept it,” Obiwan admitted.

Garen’s gaze sharpened. “But you want him to use you?”

Obiwan looked around but the women were occupied on the other side of the fire, talking in low tones like the two thralls were. “Not at the moment,” he said churlishly. “I didn’t like his behavior tonight. But,” and here Obiwan blushed, “we’ve kissed. It was pleasant, not abhorrent.”

Garen frowned and Obiwan understood.

“They used you for their pleasure, didn’t they?” he asked bluntly. Garen tensed, looked away in shame but nodded. “Tahl has as much honor as her brother, Garen. All she needs is another strong back to help her. Once you are healed and able, you will contribute to the village like everyone else.”

Garen didn’t look convinced so Obiwan decided to give the other man a bit of hope. He leaned in and whispered, “Tahl tells me she will make you a freedman. I think it maybe next year, after this big meeting with their king in the spring. I hope Quigon will do the same with me too. There is no dishonor in being forced, Garen. I know you are angry and you have a right to be but don’t take it out on Tahl or Bant. They are not who you should blame for your mistreatment.”

“I had friends once,” Garen said in low anguished tones. “A girl I was going to marry one day. Though I was an orphan I was accepted among my people. Then the Norsemen came. Sverre Chun hit me in the back of the head while I fought one of his sons. When I regained consciousness, I was on a boat and one of them was…” He swallowed and looked away in humiliation. “In me, grunting like a pig. It hurt. They took turns. Offered me to others, though thankfully none took the offer.”

Obiwan scowled. If no one had been paying mind that night on the boat after his own capture, Bruck might have done the same to him.

“They are the lowest of the low,” Obiwan said fervently. “I have seen enough of these people, I think, to understand that the Chuns are not typical of the Norsemen. Don’t judge them all the same, Garen.”

“I will make you a pact, Obiwan Kenobi,” Garen offered in hushed tones. “We will be friends, allies against all enemies, here or where ever else. We’re in the same boat, so to speak. We were free once, we know that our honor has been tainted by these barbarians, and God willing, we will be free again.”

Obiwan gave a big smile and held his hand out, warrior to warrior. They clasped wrists in a tight grip and released. “I’m always happy to have a new friend,” Obiwan told him genuinely. “Have you refused to take a sleeping draught because you wanted to speak with me?”

Garen nodded with a grimace of pain to flavor his expression.

“Adi, Tahl.” Obiwan turned to the women. “We’ve said what needs saying. It’s time for him to rest now.”

Adi, tall and limber, crouched easily by Garen’s head and tipped a bowl of something ghoulish to the young man’s lips. Garen made a face at the taste but drank it obediently. These past weeks, no doubt, Garen was aware that Adi had no intention of poisoning him, no matter how foul the concoction.

Garen gripped Obiwan’s knee tightly until the potion took its effect, the hand easing to looseness as Garen’s breathing regulated into a sleeping pattern.

Obiwan settled the hand comfortably at Garen’s side and stood up. He hefted the mace but before he reached the door, it swung open and Quigon appeared. He did not look happy.

“You were told to guard the door,” he snapped.

Obiwan made to answer in kind when Tahl growled back, “Garen wished to speak with Obiwan, to calm his nerves and get reassurance. Mind your mouth and your manners in my home, brother mine.”

Quigon’s tension eased a bit and he snatched the mace from Obiwan’s grip before Obiwan realized what he was about. A battle axe was thrust in his hands in its place, roughly the size and weight of the sword that had been taken from him upon his capture all those weeks ago.

“You’ll be more useful with an axe than a mace,” rumbled Quigon before turning to the others. “Sverre Chun has no idea where his piece of offal son has gone. He never showed for supper. It has been declared that Bruck Chun is outlaw. If seen, he is to be killed. The elder Chun was not pleased with the declaration but after learning that Bruck stabbed Garen, a defenseless thrall, like a coward, he couldn’t argue the sentence.” Quigon growled like a cornered wolf. “He wanted to, though, he really did. The halftroll knows he’s on thin ice himself. So, like all cowards with no honor, he let his son suffer the consequences of a poor upbringing.”

Quigon turned away and the women exchanged alarmed glances. “So, you have no idea where Bruck is?” asked Adi worriedly.

“Still on the island, cowering like a rabbit, I’m sure,” groused Quigon. “He might be off land before we get word around of his change in status or we might get lucky and someone skewers the idiot first. Since Obiwan is so keen on playing protector, he will stand watch until daybreak. Eeth’s son, Reeft, will replace him. The two will guard this house in shifts until we can determine where Bruck is, or isn’t.”

Quigon gave Obiwan a hard look. “Any complaints?”

“No.” Obiwan gave Quigon a defiant look. “None.”

“I must speak with Obiwan privately and then, Adi, I will escort you to your home if you require it.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, Obiwan was drug outside by the arm not holding the axe.

Obiwan felt a bit of apprehension as Quigon’s expression was thunderous. “You humiliated me before my-“

“You did that yourself,” Obiwan spat, interrupting. “What if I’d been reporting a raid of enemies? You were so drunk you wouldn’t have understood that either and likely would have been gutted from navel to nose by anyone who followed me in there.”

Quigon was taken aback by Obiwan’s accusation and then glowered when he knew he had no comeback. “Regardless,” Quigon said warningly, “don’t do it again.”

“Listen when I say there’s something wrong,” Obiwan countered. “You were thinking with the wrong head. Are you so desperate for a good lay that you ignore the safety of those you swore to protect?”

He turned around, or tried to. Quigon jerked the axe from his hand, slammed it in a stump used for chopping wood nearby, and pulled Obiwan up against him. His mouth crashed down on Obiwan’s, demanding, pillaging, and Obiwan, taken unawares and just as sexually frustrated, began to return the kiss after a moment. Quigon backed him up against the outside of Tahl’s home, edged a knee between Obiwan’s legs, and rucked him up.

Caught up in sensation and lust, Obiwan began to rub himself against the muscular limb between his legs, trying to find friction to get himself off. Quigon’s hands cupped his buttocks, lifted him further until they were groin to groin. Obiwan gave a gasp of air that was cut off quickly by Quigon’s mouth smothering him again. Near frantic thrusts against each other turned Obiwan mindless and he began to pant, tearing himself from the kiss and throwing his head back. He wrapped his legs around Quigon’s hips.

Quigon nipped at the exposed flesh and their movements became rhythmic. It was dashed, like cold water tossed on them both, by Sifo’s voice calling out, “Quigon! Where the fuck are you? We found something!”

Quigon tore himself away and the two of them stared at each other in the light of the waning moon overhead. “Later,” Quigon muttered, stepping away and adjusting himself. “We’ll finish this later.”

Obiwan couldn’t help but say, “I look forward to it.”

That earned him another kiss, the axe thrust back into hand, and his big brute of a future lover striding off to find out what Sifo and the search group discovered.

Resolved to a long night, Obiwan too adjusted himself to a more comfortable fit of his trousers and settled the axe to an at-rest position easily maintained for a long wait. Morning was a long time in coming and, with a madman on the loose, Obiwan needed his wits about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brusi – he-goat – seemed appropriate. LOL!
> 
> Original intention had been to give Obiwan a sword, but a change watch of a documentary mentioned that Vikings and their swords had much in common as the Japanese samurai and theirs. A slave would not be allowed on under any circumstances. So I abruptly changed it to a mace, with Quigon replacing that with a battle axe. Odds would have been good that Master Fisto would have had Obiwan trained in a variety of weapons. Specializing in just one would have been stupid.
> 
> To quote Tom Selleck to the dying and confused Alan Rickman in Quigley Down Under: I said I didn't care for them, didn't say I didn't know how to use one." Referring of course to a Colt six shooter that Rickman's character worshipped as much as he did his idol, Wild Bill Hickok. Great movie, not Viking, but definitely worth a watch. A ++ (Can either of those actors doing anything really bad?)
> 
> And because I can...BEHOLD! The 'elghund' or as they are now called, Norwegian Elkhound. I grew up with this breed, as I've said before. They shed like mad, as do most long-haired, thick-coated dogs, but great dogs. The family cheers them on at every TV broadcasted dog show for the Hound Group. Long Live Nikki, Bjorn, Smokey, and Jack!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is only one other chapter written beyond this one. With Nanowrimo on my November agenda with an original work, writing and posting will be sporadic and probably more than once a week. I apologize ahead of time. It will not be abandoned!!!

Bruck Chun disappeared like smoke. By mid-afternoon the next day when Obiwan awoke after being relieved in guard duty by Reeft at dawn, word was all over the island and no rock had been left unturned. Boats were sent out to the near-by islands as well, but no sign of Bruck could be found. Obiwan did another night’s watch but it was decided after that there was no further threat and a guard was no longer needed.

The fourth day after the man-hunt was halted, Obiwan woke to Quigon standing over his newly made bed, an unreadable expression on his bearded features. New things were in the braids of his hair and his beard was gathered into a couple of rings, like a beard tail. His clothes were fine fabrics and to Obiwan’s sleep-bleary eyes, the Norseman was a delicious sight to behold.

“What are you dressed up for?” he yawned, sitting up.

“Vetrnaetr,” Quigon replied.

Obiwan’s brow furrowed. “And that is?”

“Winter’s Night. The celebration of the end of the autumn and the start of winter. In our homeland it would signal the start of living on hunted meat but all there is here are fish, rabbit, otters, and seals. Tonight we will feast and give thanks to our gods and their helpers for our fine harvest and ask for assistance during the harsh winter.” Quigon tossed something at Obiwan’s head. “Get dressed. We are expected to make an appearance.”

Obiwan pulled the garment from off his head and frowned when it wasn’t one of the fine clothes Quigon had made for him. It was but threadbare wool tunic and trousers that had seen better days. Something niggled at Obiwan and he looked up. “Why not my velvets?” he asked apprehensively.

“If you want to get blood out of them, be my guest,” Quigon told him and then walked away.

_Blood?_

Unbidden, tales told by village elders of cannibalistic rituals and human sacrifice came to Obiwan’s mind and he got out of bed with extreme reluctance. The clothes were a bit big and smelled overwhelmingly of cedar, telling Obiwan they’d belonged to someone else a long time ago and had been stored where moths weren’t likely to get to them. He blushed a little bit when he wondered if they had been Quigon’s. Once dressed and belt at his waist, he tugged on his leather shoes. He ran a bone comb through his hair, unsnarling a few sleep tangles, and dutifully joined Quigon outside.

It was early enough that the frost-frozen grass crunched beneath their feet as they walked. Quigon went straight to Tahl’s house, ordered Obiwan to remain outside, and entered. A few moments later he exited, motioned Obiwan to follow, and went door to door to speak with the other villagers.

Each conversation alarmed Obiwan more and more. “Obiwan will be honored to help me with the sacrifice,” or “I’ll have Obiwan help put the statues in their places.” Finally, he could bear it no more and halted.

“I’ll not do it!” he declared obstinately, folding his arms across his chest.

Something was up. Quigon’s eyes were a blue twinkling ocean in his smirking face. “And what won’t you do?” Quigon asked obligingly.

“Slit the throat of whatever hapless thrall you deem worthy of sacrifice to your heathen gods!” Obiwan blurted out. Quigon’s smirk deepened and something occurred to Obiwan. “Am _I_ the sacrifice?” he cried in horror. “Is that why I’m dressed in these rags?”

Quigon roared with laughter, bending over and clutching his belly. He waved a hand weakly at Obiwan and after a few moments managed to pull himself together. “It’s that worthless pig that you complain couldn’t find a root if you dug it up yourself and put it in front of him.”

“That fat hog that shoves everyone else aside and gorges himself until he’s sick?” Quigon nodded. Before Obiwan could think he added, “He’ll make good eating.”

Quigon chuckled. “I know. The Dísir will be appreciative, we hope.”

His world tilting in every which direction, Obiwan asked apprehensively, “And who are they?” Were those the witches that took warriors to a drunken revelry afterlife?

Quigon’s expression turned pensive as he attempted to explain. “They have many functions, Obiwan. They are warrior-goddesses like the Valkyrie, but also guardians of the clans they favor. They guard the dead. This is a time to appease the Elves as well.”

Obiwan hiked a skeptical eyebrow. “Elves.” His tone was dry. Quigon was having him on, surely.

Quigon slanted him a bemused look. “This from a man whose people believe in fairy rings in forests that take you to the fairy kingdoms where you are either treated like royalty or made a slave. You question our belief in elves?”

Obiwan sniffed disdainfully. “I don’t believe in fairy rings either.”

Quigon gave him a condescending smirk. “Probably why you’re a thrall. Pissed off some fairy queen by being rude and this is how she got revenge.” Obiwan blinked at that take on his current captivity. “Either way, I would prefer your pigheadedness not bring ill upon my house or clan. Kill the damned pig, we’ll roast him up, have a feast, get drunk, and hope that appeases everyone involved.”

Obiwan nodded obligingly. “Very well. But what’s with blood and the statues?”

“Have to appease the gods somehow,” Quigon shrugged. He rolled his eyes at Obiwan’s appalled expression. “Christians. So squeamish. You can quote your holy book but apparently don’t understand anything in it. Just how many goats and sheep have been sacrificed to your god by faithful Christians, Obiwan?”

With that parting shot, Quigon sauntered away, leaving Obiwan gape-mouthed and scrambling after him. He wracked his brain of what he recalled of sermons and Bible stories told to him before grudgingly conceding Quigon had a point. Gods, no matter who they belonged to, were a blood-thirsty lot.

* * *

Quigon chuckled to himself over the course of the early morning at Obiwan’s increasingly disturbed and perturbed expressions. Quigon understood the Christian religion quite well, understood how it appealed to some people, but honestly, for himself, that was a lot of self-flagellation and guilt for a short lifetime. It was worse when you weren’t guaranteed a happy afterlife when you finished all that suffering you made yourself do while alive. He much preferred constant feasting, laughter, comrades and maybe a battle or two for all eternity.

He supervised Obiwan’s killing of the old hog and the draining of the blood to be sprinkled upon the gods’ statues. A few others came to help Obiwan with the butchering, since it was not a skill the thrall was particularly good at. He set Obiwan and a few other young men his age to wrangling the statues housed in various locations to the center of the village where the festival would take place.

It was early afternoon by the time it was all completed and several people were wandering about, placing chairs, benches and other means of seated comfort around the spitted pig currently roasting over the huge firepit. Quigon supervised it all, as was his place as Jarl.

When all seemed ready and women began bringing out additional foods to accompany the sizzling pork, Quigon sent a slightly lagging Obiwan to clean up and get dressed in clothing more appropriate to the event. Obiwan gave him a level look when he cheekily suggested the green velvet.

“Brings out your eyes,” he teased, which caused Obiwan to blush slightly. Quigon thought the flush delightful and shook his head at his own smitten folly. He indulged in watching Obiwan walk away; he had a nice swagger.

Sifo made a groaning sound at Quigon’s left shoulder and Quigon turned in time to catch a large drinking horn thrust at him. A tiny bit of good, strong smelling beer sloshed onto Quigon’s hand and he flicked it off after transferring the drinking vessel to his other hand. He drank deeply, savoring the heady, rich flavor.

“Vragi makes damned fine beer,” Quigon commented after taking another hefty draught.

Sifo swallowed his own mouthful as he nodded. With his own horn clutched in his fist, the stout warrior motioned to Obiwan, who had just vanished into the long house. “Do you think he’s one of these abstaining types?”

Quigon grinned. “I doubt it. Water is no safer to drink in Albia than anywhere else. I merely think he’s moderate.”

Sifo grunted. “I suppose you are hoping to take advantage of the situation with the revelry tonight?”

Quigon frowned. “No, yes, maybe.” He sighed heavily and took another fortifying drink. “It’s complicated,” he muttered.

His friend snorted derisively. “Hardly,” Sifo said dryly. “The boy watches every move you make like you’re his lifeline and he’s adrift at sea. Lust positively glows in those bewitching eyes of his. Get him drunk and get him laid.” Sifo clanked their horns together. “You’ll both be happier and the gods will get relief from your mutual pining and suffering.”

Quigon watched as his friend wandered off to give unsolicited advice to some of the women setting up feasting tables. Large barrels of beer, ale and mead were being strategically placed around the area. No one would have to go far to get a drink this upcoming long night.

Quigon was no stranger to the rituals needed done for Vetrnaetr. He had done them ever since his father disappeared beneath the ocean waves and Quigon earned his place as Jarl under the newly created King Einarr. It was Tahl who moved to this island with her late husband, Agen Kolar. Quigon couldn’t help but follow, as he and his sister had always been close.

He let his gaze wander and found Tahl, unerringly assisting in the many duties of the women, most of them deferring to her. It wasn’t just because she was the Jarl’s sister, but because Tahl’s uncanny acceptance and even great use of her disability made her seem otherworldly to many, her brother included.

One day, Quigon promised himself, he would find that bloody cur who took her vision and gut him like the pig he was. He would lay the villain’s heart at her feet so she could stomp on it. He knew she bore herself with dignity but he also knew how much the injury did harm to her.

And worst of all…they had no idea how the churl damaged her sight. There was still the amber-brown of her eyes as always, but when the blindness occurred, almost overnight, the whites of her eyes turned blood-red. Quigon still remembered her screams of pain as whatever did the damage burned away her vision. It took some months before the healer allowed the blindfold to be removed from her face.

For months Quigon pestered her for information. Who was the man? Where did he say he came from? Did she eat or drink anything he gave her? Finally, in frustration at his overprotective nagging she snapped the man gave her a beautiful, huge white flower and told her it came from the distant East.

A passing individual abruptly filled Quigon’s near empty vessel and he nodded distracted thanks. What was done, was done, he mused darkly. Vengeance would come if the gods willed it.

He had no idea he’d been brooding for so long, as he jumped with a start at Obiwan’s droll voice saying, “Do your gods submit to your fearsome scowl for this ritual or has someone displeased you in the bit of time since I left you?”

Quigon turned to the young man and swallowed. Obiwan had shaved, his cheeks and chin smooth, showing off teasing dimples and the cleft in his chin that Quigon often wanted to run his tongue through before capturing Obiwan’s lips in a bruising kiss…

“Well, my appearance has miraculously put you in a good mood,” Obiwan said lightly. “Perhaps I should try for further signs of sainthood? I have done a miracle. What are the other rules for being sainted? Ah yes, I must be dead, of course.”

Quigon’s stomach lurched at the thought. “I will not allow it,” he declared unequivocally. “You are young. This sainthood will have to wait many, _many_ years if your death is a requirement.”

Obiwan merely smiled complacently at him. “Perhaps I’ll be the exception then, and be sainted while living with barbarians who wear rings in their beards and share their islands with…” He paused a moment. “Seals?”

Quigon sighed at Obiwan’s teasing. “Yes, seals,” he confirmed. “I promise, I will take you to see them along the beach.”

Obiwan’s green-blue eyes danced with merriment. “Better hurry,” he advised. “My cold-adverse bones tell me winter is quickly approaching and is likely going to bring much snow.”

Quigon rolled his eyes and shoved his drinking horn at Obiwan. “Drink that and spare me the old woman prophesizing, whelp.”

Obiwan drank and made a face when he passed the horn back to Quigon. “I think I’ll stick with the mead,” he noted.

Quigon gave him a wicked grin. “You do that,” he said. He turned to point toward the nearest mead barrel. “Right there, convenient to your purposes. Grab a vessel, fill it up, and find someplace to sit.” He watched as Obiwan did so but stopped the youth when he made to sit on a bench. “Alas, Obiwan, I’m sorry. The ground for you,” he said regretfully.

Obiwan compressed his lips and grumbled, “Nothing like sitting on the cold hard ground so shortly after surviving a raging fever.”

Quigon quirked his head to one side in consideration. His beautiful thrall had a point. He pretended to ignore Obiwan’s complaint and walked to Adi, who was currently herding carefully Garen from Tahl’s home. “Adi,” Quigon said in a low tone, “I think Garen would benefit from Obiwan’s company. Neither need to be sitting on plain, cold earth. Perhaps the gods will allow us an indulgence in letting them sit on some cushions to keep them from further illness?”

Adi’s gaze slid from a pouting Obiwan some distance away and then to Garen before giving a nod. “As healer, I do not want to see these young men more than is needed. I will make a small offering to the gods begging their pardon for this breach in protocol.”

Garen was staring up at Quigon, wide-eyed with surprise. Quigon gave him a wink and then schooled his features into something more authoritative. When Adi appeared with two of Tahl’s more worn cushions, he led the way to Obiwan.

“The healer has stated you two do not need to be further taxed with your poor health of late,” he stated in a clear booming voice that carried across the filling feasting area. People looked in askance at the cushions that were obviously meant for the slaves’ comfort. “If you get sick and die, you are of no use to us. Extra sacrifice will be made, begging the pardon of the gods.”

Obiwan and Garen’s eyes darted around to see what the reaction was from the rest of the village. Quigon kept his eyes on Sverre Chun, who was sneering from his spot as close to the fire without bursting into flame himself. Quigon itched to sink his seax in the cur’s belly but restrained himself. He wasn’t convinced that Bruck’s actions against the family’s former property was entirely his own idea.

His seax, his battle knife, was in its sheath on his belt. Even for rituals Quigon did not go unarmed, especially with the troubles of late. He fingered it while staring directly at Sverre, who looked concerned, swallowing reflexively, and darting his piggy eyes around for possible allies. Quigon’s blunt fingers ran along the wooden handle with a carved elghund chasing a moose. Point made, he turned his attention elsewhere.

Darkness was encroaching and it was almost time to begin. He walked to his big chair placed in a prime location and settled himself on the rich cushioned seat. The smell of roasting pig, various dishes well-spiced by the village womenfolk, and various alcohols were vibrant in the air. Quigon made himself relax. This was a time for feasting, merriment, and, he slanted a look at an oblivious Obiwan, hopefully sexual release.

Everyone settled into their places and the ritual began. Quigon took up the bowl of blood that had been set in front of each statue earlier that day. As he spoke the ritual words, the prayers to each god or goddess, he anointed the statues with the slightly congealed blood. His fingers were dark with the liquid of life as he smeared each statue, speaking confidently and respectfully.

The darkness continued to fall and outside the firelight and torches the landscape was pitch black. It seemed not even the stars and moon shone. Quigon continued, reaching the last stature between Obiwan and Garen and the nearby barrel of honey mead. He prayed to the goddess there and looked over at Obiwan.

The young man’s eyes looked glazed and he seemed enraptured by something otherworldly. With a final swipe of bloody fingers, Quigon slipped one finger after another into his mouth and sucked the iron-tanged liquid off. Obiwan’s features didn’t shift, so either he hadn’t noticed or he had and wasn’t revulsed.

The latter was a heartening thought.

Finished with his duties, Quigon went back to his seat, settled down and declared the feasting to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked EVERYWHERE for information on Nordic rituals and religious practices. The information seems to be varied, mostly by geographic location, or is just flat out scarce due to no one writing it down or it being saved once Christianity became mainstream in Viking society. It seems that personal worship in private homes or on the fly when out and about trading or pillaging was the primary way of practicing their religion. It was very nature-based, as so many pagan religions are when you are at the mercy of the natural world for survival. The few little dregs I could find on Vetrnaetr were very incomplete and appear almost like they were guesses. I went with what I could find and made up the rest. Vikings were a very brutal society and many pagan religions were messy when it came to rituals, especially when it came to animal sacrifices. Oh, and not sanitary. Food safety organizations would have had a heart attack, not to mention animal right activists.
> 
> Elves – The Dökkálfar and Ljósálfar, Dark Elves and Light Elves are not just Marvel make-believe for Thor: The Dark World. Neither were beings you wanted to piss off, but each could be helpful and useful to humans. The Dark Elves lived in the earth, the Light elves lived in Álfheimr. Near as I can tell, this is some otherworld where the Light elves lived. Are you starting to see where Tolkein got his inspiration for ‘going into the West’?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What some of you have been impatiently waiting for (you know who you are!).

Obiwan didn’t think thralls normally attended such festivities, as various villagers were giving both he and Garen judgmental looks. He wondered himself why they were there but whispers reached his ears that Jarl Quigon wanted both thralls in public view considering the recent issues with Bruck Chun and the latter’s still unknown whereabouts. That settled the concerns of all but the extreme sticklers of the Norse society’s traditions. None of those, though, were willing to go against Quigon’s orders.

Warily, Obiwan and Garen watched the people eating, drinking, laughing, talking and enjoying themselves with such abandon. Obiwan didn’t know Garen’s background, though the other spoke Scots, but he figured this wasn’t too foreign to him either. The Scots, though Christian, were fond of drink and good times when it was time for it.

Obiwan obligingly kept he and Garen’s drinking horns filled with the good mead but after awhile Garen’s eyes began to droop and he gave out a yawn that cracked his jaw. Flushing Garen mumbled, “My pardon, Obiwan.”

Obiwan chuckled and settled on his side, sprawled over his cushion. “I don’t think Quigon will allow you to your bed so soon, so let’s keep you awake a bit longer, shall we?”

Garen cocked his head to the side. “What do you propose?” he asked.

“Tell me about yourself,” Obiwan invited warmly. “Where you grew up, your family. You said you had a sweetheart, a girl you were betrothed too. I know these are not happy thoughts all considering, but you are my friend. I want to know you.”

Garen’s face settled into a thoughtful expression. “I am from a little village called Howe,” he began before taking another small drink. “My family are…were…solid supporters of King Edmund before his murder. We were often in the thick of fighting with Eric Bloodaxe…” Garen’s voice trailed off and he nervously looked around while licking his lips.

“Go on,” Obiwan encouraged nonchalantly. “I doubt the fact of their fellow Norsemen’s doings will disturb anyone here.”

Garen heaved a deep, steadying breath and continued. “I was captured, as I told you, by the Chuns. We had been near the ill-fated Lindisfarne Abbey, that was struck numerous times by these Vikings for at least two centuries, which is how I found myself on a boat so soon.” At Obiwan’s puzzled look, Garen clarified, “The great abbey sits on an island just off the Northumbrian coast. It is very holy, bearing the remains of St. Cuthbert.”

“So, you were captured, made thrall and brought here?” Obiwan asked.

Garen shook his head, glaring darkly into his mostly empty horn tankard. “No, they moved many times. Sverre, as you may have noticed, tends to piss people off with his foul temper and dishonorable living. Each village forced the family to move. I have no doubt it will be the same here.” Garen gave a bitter smile. “But at least I will not go with them this time.”

Obiwan settled a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave a small squeeze. “No, you are safe now from that family’s vile treachery.”

Obiwan felt eyes upon him and looked at Quigon. The big Viking’s brows were knit together but whether from thinking or displeasure, Obiwan didn’t know. That intense gaze held his own for a moment before sliding away, as if dismissing Obiwan.

Struggling to regain his equilibrium, Obiwan took a hefty draw of his drink. “Tell me about your girl,” he urged.

Garen’s eyes lit up with admiration and no small amount of sorrow as he waxed poetic about the girl who might have been his wife with better fortune. Obiwan nodded in all the right places and made the appropriate exclamations of appreciation. When Garen wound down, the other looked at Obiwan shrewdly and said, “Had you no one left behind, Obiwan?”

“No,” the Scots admitted. “I was this half-adopted, half-enslaved in-between. I honestly do not know what Master Fisto would have done with me now that I was grown up. He treated me like a son when I was a child but as I grew older, he grew harsher. I thought he was teaching me to be a warrior, an equal, that he’d repented the killing of my family and was training me to manhood in penance. Now,” and here he faltered, “now I don’t know what to think.”

“Why?”

Obiwan took a deep breath and was set to try to answer when a figure loomed over them, blocking the heat of the fire. “Garen, you look done in. If you like, I give you permission to seek your bed.” Garen and Obiwan stared up, startled, at Quigon who seemed to be glaring daggers at the Saxon.

Uncertain but knowing he was being dismissed, Garen hesitated too long. “Do you need assistance?” Quigon asked, his tone harsh.

Obiwan leapt to his friend’s defense. “He’s not weak,” he snapped. “We are conversing. Have we done aught amiss?”

Quigon turned those burning eyes on Obiwan, who managed to not shrink back in alarm. “Of course not,” the Jarl said smoothly. “Why would you think so? I merely do not wish Garen overly taxed.” He hiked an eyebrow at Obiwan, as if the thrall were being rude. “He did just suffer a stab wound. He needs rest more than usual to heal properly.”

Obiwan looked away, chastened but not knowing why. There was something going on, he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He glanced at Garen and was startled to find the other looking at him with some amusement.

“Thank you, Jarl Quigon,” Garen said deferentially, gingerly levering himself from his cushion. “Can you spare Obiwan to help me to my new home before he returns to the revelry and merriment?”

Quigon’s eyes narrowed but he gave an amiable nod. “Most certainly. Obiwan, be at my side in a few minutes. I will await you.” With that instruction, the Viking turned on his heel and strode into a passel of merry makers, being greeted with exclamations and what looked like drunken toasts.

Obiwan frowned, still not understanding Garen’s amused looks at him, and helped his friend steady his footing before accompanying him to Tahl and Bant’s home. “Are you going to be all right by yourself?” Obiwan fretted.

Garen gave a lopsided grin. “Tahl told me where the weapons are, just in case.” He leaned in. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about yourself than a new friend this night.”

Perplexed, Obiwan tipped his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

Garen gave a chuckle and slapped Obiwan on the back. “Ah, my friend, if I’m very much mistaken, you are about to fulfill the original purpose the Jarl had for you.”

Obiwan suddenly understood. “Oh,” he mumbled lamely.

Garen took pity on him. “I don’t think the Jarl will rape you, Obiwan, not like the Chuns did to me. If he’s not completely inebriated, there will be some wooing. Being with a man was never for me, but I’ve heard tales that if done proper it can be as pleasant as with a woman.”

Obiwan just knew his face was red as a coal. “I’ve never been with one of them either,” he managed to say.

Garen tugged him in and whispered in his ear, “Relax, allow him to kiss you, allow him to make you feel good. You’ll see. It will be all right.” Obiwan drew away and Garen threw him a wink. “All the same, I’d get a bit drunk if I were you. Can’t hurt!” The last was chortled as Garen went inside and firmly closed the door behind him, leaving Obiwan in the darkness.

With no small amount of trepidation, Obiwan turned his steps back to the feasting and partying. He reached the edge where their cushions sat and looked about. Quigon was back in his seat, looking for all the world like a mighty king upon his throne. The big man raised his hand and crooked a finger, an unmistakable order for Obiwan to join him.

A small bit of defiance roiled in Obiwan’s breast and he jerked his head up proudly and turned to the nearby, nearly empty mead barrel. He filled his drinking horn to the very top, took a hefty swig, then did as he was bid. He knew his point had been made by the fierce look Quigon gave him as Obiwan maneuvered around drunken men and merry women.

He washed up in front of Quigon and they had a staring contest for a moment before Quigon lunged forward, grabbed Obiwan around the waist and hauled him to his lap. Some mead spilled on Obiwan’s fine velvet tunic and he squawked.

“If you must flirt with anyone, you’ll flirt with me,” growled Quigon in his ear, nose brushing sensitive skin.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Obiwan protested. “I don’t flirt with anyone!”

Quigon rolled his eyes and his stern visage gave way to a rueful smile. “Ah, my thrall, you are a natural born flirt. Your mere existence tempts the gods. Even the ancient Greeks’ Narcissus would be hard put to tear his gaze from you.”

“Who was Narcissus?” Obiwan asked, frowning, wondering what a long-forgotten god had to do with anything. He didn’t recall that god from his teachings.

“A god too enamored with himself to pay mind to anything but his own reflection.”

Obiwan’s frown deepened. “I bear no resemblance to that.”

“And you will not, either. I was not saying you were _like_ Narcissus but that you could tempt even someone as self-centered as that.” Quigon shifted them both to a more comfortable position. “Now, eat.” He thrust a plate from a table by his chair at Obiwan. “You barely nibbled at anything, don’t think I didn’t notice. Be merry. This is a celebration, not a funeral.”

Obiwan partook of pork, brown bread dripping with the honey Quigon generously poured on it, and various others treats until he felt stuffed. With every toast, roared out cheerfully by warriors, farmers, and Quigon himself, Obiwan was encouraged by the lord whose lap he sat in to drink as well.

Obiwan was starting to feel woozy, lightheaded and bit daring. The light from the central fire that once housed a roasting pig since removed and consumed as well as the torches driven into the ground around the commons burnished Quigon bronze in all ways but his eyes. More than a bit tipsy, Obiwan boldly brought Quigon’s head around so that he could look into those mesmerizing eyes.

“Yes,” he nodded nonsensically, “still blue as the ocean, despite the darkness.” Quigon’s pupil expanded until the blue was gone and Obiwan gave a drunken pout. “Now the blue is gone!”

Quigon bent his head and captured Obiwan’s lips in a kiss, soft at first and then hungrier as Obiwan responded in kind. The kisses they had shared previous, Obiwan muzzily realized, was just a tease. _Now_ he was being kissed and kissed properly.

He gave a warm “mmm” sound and broke the kiss, burying his head underneath Quigon’s chin. “S’nice,” he mumbled.

There was a hitch in Quigon’s breathing and Obiwan pulled back to look to see what was wrong. A smile twitched at Quigon’s mouth. “I think you’ve had too much, my thrall,” the Viking lord rumbled. “You’ve become silly.”

Obiwan drew himself to as much a dignified posture as he could while being held like a doll in a little girl’s arms. “Am not silly,” he protested, slurring the ‘s’ almost like a stammer. “What’s silly about liking kissing?” he demanded when Quigon continued to smile at him.

“Nothing,” Quigon assured him, leaning in for another kiss. Against Obiwan’s lips, the Jarl whispered, “Nothing at all.”

The kiss this time had them gasping for air when they broke only to dive in for more, tongues tangling, breath mingling, and hands beginning to roam and tease. Quigon’s big hands rested under Obiwan’s tunic on his hips, hands splayed and moving behind to cup Obiwan’s ass. Obiwan twisted so he was sitting facing Quigon, legs bracketing his lord’s thighs.

The kissing became lazy, indicating a promise that Obiwan was too inexperienced and too muzzy-headed anyway to comprehend. He trusted Quigon, knew the big man wouldn’t hurt him, and let the pleasurable sensations wash over him like water.

There was a shout, some laughter, and Quigon looked up. Obiwan reeled back drunkenly and Quigon caught him before he fell backwards. “Indeed,” Quigon said and stood up, grasping Obiwan to him. Obiwan obliging wrapped his legs around Quigon’s waist, ignoring the hoots and jeers, not comprehending the noise was about he and Quigon’s embrace.

Quigon left the commons and the lighted way, his gait steady and sure as he headed for their long house home.

“Indeed what?” Obiwan asked, nibbling on Quigon’s neck where it was exposed to him.

“Hmm?”

“You said ‘indeed’,” Obiwan murmured, using his still somewhat nimble fingers to untangle some of Quigon’s hair when he drew the digits through the silken length.

“Tis nothing to worry about,” Quigon said, kicking open the door and scattering a couple of geese. One honked angrily and went to peck at Quigon’s leg but he gave the creature another kick, sending it fluttering away.

“I told you the animals belong outside,” Obiwan complained half-heartedly.

“Shush,” Quigon told him with a small laugh. “You wouldn’t do that and you know it.” He unwound Obiwan from him and tossed the Scotsman on his oversized bed. “Now, no more animals, no more interfering friends, just you and me as I’ve wanted for all this time.”

Obiwan lifted his arms obligingly when Quigon divested him of his fine green tunic and lifted his hips when the trousers were pulled down. He didn’t remember the shoes and belt coming off and frankly didn’t care. All Obiwan could think or see was the sheen of desire burning bright in Quigon’s eyes.

As if he were delicate glass, Quigon’s hands brushed down Obiwan’s flank lightly, making the younger man squirm. “You are so beautiful,” Quigon said in a hushed voice. “I have been many places, Obiwan, and seen many people, but none as beautiful as you.”

“Men aren’t beautiful,” Obiwan protested with a blush. “They are handsome.”

Quigon gave a laugh. “Certainly, men can be beautiful, Obiwan,” he contradicted.

Bored with the topic, Obiwan pushed himself up onto his elbows. “You’re dressed. Fix that,” he ordered like a military commander.

Quigon hiked an eyebrow but did as requested. Layers of fine velvets, furs and jewels vanished from Quigon’s body, almost like magic before Obiwan’s not-so-sober gaze. When his underthings were tossed aside and he was gloriously, mouthwateringly naked, Obiwan lifted his arms in invitation for Quigon to join him on the bed.

Quigon shook his head and held up a finger in a ‘one moment’ gesture. Obiwan watched curiously as Quigon walked to a fine cabinet that Obiwan knew Quigon kept his jewels, gold and other priceless things like spices and oils. He took out a small, dark, glass vial, pulled out the stopper, gave a sniff and then nodded to himself.

“What is that?” Obiwan asked curiously.

Quigon walked back to the bed, saying slyly, “Something that will help.”

Obiwan nodded obediently and gave a sigh when Quigon sat next to him, setting the vial to one side. The giant man then bent over and captured Obiwan’s mouth in a kiss. Obiwan moaned and opened his mouth and the heat that had been banked at the feast fanned into a burning inferno. Before Obiwan knew it, Quigon’s long rangy body was next to his, hands roaming Obiwan’s body.

Quigon lowered his head and captured a nipple, making Obiwan jerk in surprise and then let out a groan of ‘yesssss’. It felt divine, whatever Quigon was doing. Kisses down Obiwan’s chest, stomach and pelvis had him squirming, sensations overwhelming him.

It took him a moment to realize that Quigon was saying his name. He looked down and flushed as he saw that his lover was hovering right over his erect penis. “Um, what?” he asked.

“Are you sure?” Quigon’s expression was strangely vulnerable, hopeful.

Obiwan gave Quigon a beatific smile. “Oh, yes,” he murmured and then yelped when what was obviously Quigon’s mouth enveloped his organ.

Quigon came up and pushed Obiwan’s hips down, saying calmly, “Easy now, easy. It will feel good, I promise. Do you trust me?”

Obiwan eyed the big man warily. This didn’t seem natural but he nodded gamely. “I trust you.”

Quigon swallowed him once more and soon Obiwan forgot his misgivings, his head thrown back on the furs and heavy wools that covered Quigon’s bed. The pressure built, not just in his loins, but in his head, in his chest, in his stomach, and by Quigon’s gods, in his toes too! Quigon’s mouth was sin, Obiwan was sure of it, and he didn’t care. He wanted to feel like this forever and yet he wanted it to stop, certain instinctively that it was going to feel so damned good when it did.

He was right. Quigon toyed idly with Obiwan’s ball sack and the young man couldn’t stop his orgasm. He was mindless, lightning and stars and rainbows blinding him even though his eyes were closed. When he resurfaced, blinking in the dim light of a candle lamp that hadn’t been lit before, Obiwan found Quigon standing over the bed, pulling the stopper out of the vial, his own cock curving to his stomach, ready, waiting for its turn.

Quigon greased his fingers with the oil, put the stopper back in and tossed it back on the bed. He gave Obiwan an arched look and growled, “My turn.”

He knelt between Obiwan’s lower legs, bending them at the knees, and shoving some cloth under Obiwan’s hips. Perplexed but game to see what else was in store, Obiwan allowed his body to be moved around like some jointed doll. It was slightly embarrassing but he didn’t care. Obiwan felt greedy, light-headed, and eager to learn how to make Quigon feel just as good as the Norseman had made Obiwan just moments earlier.

“I cannot penetrate you,” Quigon said almost conversationally. “I’m too large and you are a virgin to male sex. It would hurt you and, while I could find release, I would find no pleasure in your pain.”

Obiwan frowned. “So what are you going to do?” He was feeling more sober, more alert.

Quigon gave him a rascally grin that had Obiwan’s heart beating a rapid pattern. “I’m going to stretch you. It will take time,” he added. “It’s not instantaneous.”

“Oh.” Obiwan didn’t understand and it was apparent Quigon knew it.

“Obiwan, look at me.” Obiwan obligingly looked Quigon, who shook his head. “I mean my cock.” Obiwan swallowed and redirected his gaze as ordered. “Do you think that will fit in your rear end without issue?”

“Um,” Obiwan stammered, certain his blush was as bright as the candle flame. “Er.”

Quigon’s body shook with rumbled laughter. “You are correct. But it can, and will, eventually. We just have to work on it.”

“Work on it?” Obiwan squeaked uncertainly.

In answer, Quigon put his hand between Obiwan’s legs and a finger, slick with whatever oil Quigon used, slowly flirted with Obiwan’s hole. It was a strange sensation and Obiwan concentrated on it, trying to decide if it was a good or bad feeling. A finger gingerly went inside, just the tip, freezing when Obiwan gave a jolt of surprise.

“No?” Quigon inquired. “You don’t like it?”

Obiwan frowned. “I wasn’t…it’s fine.”

The finger continued in, a little bit at a time, stopping to allow Obiwan’s body to adjust to the idea of a finger in his ass. Obiwan was certain Quigon was up to his second knuckle and the idea was confirmed when Obiwan’s lover crooked his finger.

Obiwan closed his eyes and breathed, listening as Quigon murmured, “Relax, just feel, relax.”

The play continued for a few more minutes before Quigon removed his finger. Obiwan popped an eye open and squinted at the big man. “That’s it?”

Quigon quirked a grin. “For now. I wanted to see if you disliked it. You don’t. We can continue later.” The strong voice turned into a possessive growl. “Now, though, it’s my turn to come.”

Quigon snatched up the vial, popped the cork, and dribbled the oil between Obiwan’s butt cheeks. The younger man got the smell of the oil now: olives. It wasn’t a rarity, a common export from Europe and the Mediterranean, but Obiwan never in his wildest dreams thought it could be used for sex, of all things.

Quigon settled himself on Obiwan, bracketing the young man’s head in his giant hands for a kiss. Obiwan was bemused to feel Quigon’s cock slide between his butt cheeks slightly but not penetrate him.

“Put your legs around my waist, beautiful one,” Quigon rasped, eyes closed and one hand now positioning himself fully between Obiwan’s cheeks. Obiwan hesitantly obliged and Quigon began to move, thrusting and occasionally using a hand to keep himself settled between Obiwan’s rear parting.

The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, quite pleasant in fact, and Obiwan felt himself hardening again with the friction of Quigon’s body moving over his member. Soon he was rising to meet Quigon’s thrusting, his own left hand drifting down to tug on his cock.

Obiwan was once again awash in pleasure, Quigon’s breath on his cheek. He turned his head and captured that mouth in a kiss, which was greedily returned. They both came nearly at the same time, Obiwan feeling his release smearing between their bodies and Quigon’s mussing between his ass cheeks and on the blankets beneath them.

Quigon was still, breathing heavily, and occasionally nudging Obiwan’s ear. Obiwan, some pagan god of mischief taking hold of his brain, said teasingly, “Was it good for you?”

Quigon chortled and rolled off Obiwan, pulling the other man on top of him. Quigon angled Obiwan’s face for another deep kiss before responding. “Yes, it was good for me. One day it will wonderful for both of us.”

A sudden vulnerability came over Obiwan. He looked away a moment and asked hesitantly, “I didn’t disappoint you?”

“Ah, my lad,” Quigon sighed, tilting his head back until they were once again facing each other. “You were all I’d dreamed of and more for our first time together.”

Reassured and exhausted, Obiwan gave a small smile, snuggled into Quigon’s deep embrace, and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori – Love conquers all, let us too yield to love.   
> The quote is from Virgil’s Bucolica. It was actually found inscribed in runes when a fire destroyed an old part of Bergen, Norway, revealing a medieval quarter dating from between 1150-1350 A.D. Virgil is apparently universal!
> 
> I wanted to use almond oil for the lube but couldn’t definitively nail down that Quigon would have had easy access to it. Sure, he could have picked some up while raiding/trading with Spain and France, etc but honestly, olive oil would have been more prevalent, since Romans traded in the stuff for centuries in Britain and the practice continues to this day. There might even have been hardy and determined olive trees grown on the island at that time. Olive oil has been a lubricant since…well, probably since humans figured out that olives made oil and that they needed lube…
> 
> Also, I think my info on Garen's background might be a bit wonky. Apparently at the time I'm placing this (mid 10th century), a good portion of Scotland and England were part of Danelaw, the Viking kingdom there. So Obiwan's is likely weird as well. Well, Viking era history is not my main thing, I have admitted, and mistakes will be made. Just...pretend that it's all historically accurate, shall we? (wink)


	12. Chapter 12

Morning came to find Quigon nibbling his way down Obiwan’s neck. The younger man stretched lazily and made appreciative noises that turned erotic when Quigon sucked him off. A bit of semen still in his mouth, Quigon kissed Obiwan, sharing his lover’s flavor with him.

“I’m certain this is a sin,” Obiwan murmured when the kiss broke for air.

“I would suggest some sort of penance but all I can offer for it is cleaning stalls and pens,” Quigon told him with amusement. Obiwan merely rolled his eyes and his body out of bed.

The morning was spent suffering with knowing looks, joking, teasing and an all-mighty scowl from Sverre Chun that Quigon returned with a raised eyebrow. The chores were quickly handled and the two then turned to helping the others in the village. Once all daily chores were taken care of, Quigon directed everyone to the commons to clear the trash, clean the gods’ statues, and put away the tables and chairs.

“I can’t believe that obnoxious hog was eaten whole last night,” Obiwan exclaimed, reviewing the pig’s scant remains. The village dogs had gotten to it, as there were torn off chunks that wasn’t from a knife and a couple of the rib bones looked distinctly gnawed on.

“We like our food,” Quigon told him cheerfully. “Grab that old sail. We’ll use it to drag the remains outside the village. There aren’t any predators on the island but I’d rather not have the village invaded by crows and scavengers.”

A thought occurred to Quigon as Chun ambled by, looking his usual disgruntled self. “Chun. Please assist myself and my thrall in disposing of the pig.” Chun opened his mouth to protest or worm his way out of the task but Quigon merely put authority in his tone and added, “Now.”

Unable to argue with the lord of the island, Chun did as he was bid but with much grumbling under his breath. He also didn’t put much effort into the exercise as his side dragged the ground, the old woven sailcloth catching on debris constantly and Obiwan was huffing from his exertion in trying to keep up with Quigon’s effortlessness and Chun’s lack of trying.

Once the pig was moved into the thin woods outside the village, Quigon sent Obiwan to another task. When Chun went to move away as well, Quigon grasped the man by the shoulder and forcibly steered him deeper into the woods.

“You will be helpful and available to this village and this island at all times,” Quigon told the mulish-looking Sverre. “There is nothing wrong with you physically, other than being lazier than the seals on the beach. If you do not pull your weight, I will send you out with the tide, regardless of weather or season. Several of us learned the art of repairing our long boats while on raids and travel. Your skill is not the saving grace you seem to think it is.”

Chun puffed up and tried to jerk out of Quigon’s grasp but the Jarl held firm. “I’m no mere ‘fixer of boats’,” sneered Sverre.

“I have yet to see either creation from scratch or mending of water crafts, Chun,” Quigon countered ruthlessly. “I instead stand before a man who cheats his fellows, lives off their charity and goodwill until it isn’t there any longer, and then you scurry off to find new victims to fleece.” Quigon leaned in, despite Chun’s rather rank smell. When was the last time this _bacraut_ took a bath? “I’m watching and evaluating you, Sverre Chun. I suggest you start being useful or you won’t be given the chance to run away. I’ll shunt you and that pathetic brood you call a family onto the nearest leaky boat and see if you can fix it while it drifts out to sea. Do we have an understanding?”

Chun glared hatefully at Quigon so the Jarl repeated in a more dangerous, don’t-fuck-with-me tone, “Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Quigon prompted just to piss the other man off further. _Please give me a reason to run you through._

“Yes, Jarl Quigon Yanson,” spat Sverre, literally, in Quigon’s face.

Quigon gave a pleasant smile and jerked the rather fine woolen cloak off Sverre’s shoulders, wiped his spittled-face with it and then tossed it into the nearest batch of wet leaves. Sverre squawked but Quigon paid him no mind, turning and walking away.

“You’ll get yours, you arrogant piece of shit!” growled Sverre, obviously in a tone low enough he thought Quigon couldn’t hear him.

That was his mistake.

Quigon was on Chun in a flash, furious, hauling the coward up by his tunic front, legs dangling helplessly. Chun tried to kick Quigon, made connection a couple of times, but the bigger man ignored it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone deceptively pleasant, “did you call me an ‘arrogant piece of shit’?”

Chun gurgled his reply.

“Perhaps you don’t understand how our society works,” Quigon advised. “Let me enlighten you. Yes, you have a useful skill. Supposedly, though there seems to be no actual evidence of that. However, since you haven’t bothered using it, you are instead a drain on the resources of the people of this island who contribute to the betterment of his or her neighbors and our society. My patience is not infinite, nor is my tolerance for your seeming inability to comprehend that.” Here Quigon jerked Chun to him until they were nose to nose. “I am Jarl. I answer to King Einarr, who raised me when my father drowned at sea. You are a cankersore on my arse that I am tempted to have burned off with a heated blade. If it was not made clear to you at the ϸing, let me make it clear now. You are here on my sufferance and through others’ pity. My patience is waning thin. Get an attitude adjustment or I will put you and your worthless broods’ heads on pikes and place them on the shoreline as a warning to other cankersores looking to homestead on my buttocks.”

He dropped Chun unceremoniously and looked down his nose at the wide-eyed, terrified man. “Now, you will answer in the affirmative that you comprehend my every word, that you understand you are on very thin ice, and that you and your sons will go above and beyond to be useful and commendable members of the community through the winter.”

Chun’s mouth worked soundlessly, as if coming up with and tossing out words before settling on a sullen, near-rebellious, “Yes, Jarl Quigon, I understand.”

This time Quigon walked away and ignored the mutterings of the human garbage he was leaving behind. The confrontation put him in a foul mood. Quigon needed either Obiwan in his arms or a few swigs of mead to put it aright.

Neither Obiwan nor a mead barrel was in sight when Quigon reentered the village. Grumbling to himself, Quigon looked about to see if anyone needed his assistance. Seeing nothing, he headed for the long house.

His foul temper increased as he heard Obiwan’s laughter mingling with that of another man’s. _Garen Muln_ , Quigon thought darkly and banged into his home, door crashing against the wall before bouncing closed behind him as he stalked through.

The laughter stopped and two pairs of eyes watched him warily, each having gauged that he was in an ill-mood. “Mead,” he snapped and scowled when Obiwan all but tripped over his own feet to rush for it.

A drinking horn was thrust into his hand, a bit of liquid slopping over onto his sleeve. “Unacceptable,” he growled. “Muln. Leave. If you are well enough to engage in frivolity, you are well-enough to earn your keep. Ask my sister for something meaningful for you to spend your time with.”

Garen gingerly rose from where he sat, eyes careful and flicking worriedly between Quigon and Obiwan. He wasn’t moving fast enough for Quigon’s mood so Quigon grabbed a pot and threw it at the young man’s head.

“I said leave.”

With wounded dignity that would have shamed Quigon normally, Muln headed for the door, opened it, patted the head of a worrisome goat in the nearby pen, and left. The door shut gently behind him.

“What’s happened?” Obiwan asked fretfully.

“I didn’t ask to hear your voice,” Quigon snarled and then he took a huge drink, the mead running down his beard in a careless manner.

The atmosphere was tense and Quigon’s ill-temper exploded into full-blown rage from it. He ignored the reproving expression on Obiwan’s face as the Viking tossed the drinking horn over his shoulder, the mead splattering everything behind him. Quigon stalked to Obiwan, who retreated in alarm until his back hit the wall.

Quigon jerked Obiwan to him and slammed his mouth on the younger man’s, taking, not asking. He crushed the Scots, pressing Obiwan into the log wall and himself. He rucked Obiwan’s tunic up with one hand while the other maintained a firm grip on the back of Obiwan’s head to keep him in place. His hand brutally tweaked his thrall’s right nipple until it peaked and a whimper of pain escaped Obiwan’s captured mouth.

It was if a mountain of snow fell on Quigon’s head, hearing that pained sound, dousing his heated rage to a heavy frost. He tore himself away, panting, and backed away. Obiwan’s green-blue eyes watched warily, a spark of anger glinting in their depths. Quigon flicked his own eyes down Obiwan’s body and shame swamped him further.

Obiwan wasn’t aroused like he. Obiwan had gotten no enjoyment from Quigon’s jealous possession. Quigon opened his mouth to apologize when the thump of his door flying open distracted them both.

“You do and I’ll castrate you so you’ll never have the opportunity to do it again,” shouted Tahl, unerringly coming toward Quigon, a large club in hand.

“Tahl,” he began.

“I don’t know what set you off, Quigon Yanson, but you will _not_ rape that boy, do you hear me?” she continued to shout. She couldn’t see the drinking horn in front of her and her feet struck it, causing her to trip.

Nearly into the fire pit that had hot coals still glowing.

Quigon and Obiwan leapt to catch her and Quigon was alarmed to see tears in her eyes. “Tahl,” he tried again but she interrupted him.

“Have you ever been raped, Quigon?” she demanded. “Do you know how demeaning and crushing it is to be at someone’s mercy, knowing that they will do whatever they please with you, no matter how much you fight and struggle?”

If he thought Obiwan’s pained whimper chilled him, it was nothing like the glacier his heart became at those all-too-knowing words. “Who raped you?” he bellowed in outrage. “Who would _dare_ to violate you in such a way?”

Tahl’s unseeing eye sparked angrily and her expression twisted into a derisive sneer. “Do you think the man who did this to me,” she asked, waving a hand at her face, “did it with my permission?”

Quigon’s lion-like roar shook the rafters of the long house. The penned animals added to the ruckus, as did the four dogs, who howled in equal displeasure. Shouts outside filtered in as people raced toward their leader’s home to find out what caused such ferocity.

Sifo’s voice carried over the din. “Quigon, permission to enter! Quigon, what is it? What has happened? Quigon!”

Obiwan slipped past brother and sister and opened the door. Quigon could hear his thrall’s voice, gentle and reassuring, advising all that there was nothing gone afoul in the Jarl’s home.

“The hell there hasn’t been any ill-news!” Quigon contradicted, his mind’s eye going to the many instances of rape he’d seen during a near lifetime of raiding parties and voyages. The screams of women, men, boys and girls, from pain, humiliation, and knowing sometimes it ended with those victims’ deaths when those who hurt them were finished. Tahl, his beautiful sister, under some cur’s body, him holding her down, using her like…like…

Rage blinded him and he lashed out. There was a shout of alarm and Tahl’s squeak as she was moved out of striking range, unintentional though it would be. He kicked out, feet connecting with pots, urns, baskets, cushions, chairs. His hands tore apart whatever he could grasp. The pain, the fear, the horror that his sister must have lived through…he couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t…

“Quigon.” The voice was soft, strong hands moving against him, capturing as he reached to destroy more of his possessions. He jerked free but those hands sought his again and again, over and over. His name was spoken so softly, so comfortingly, that eventually his mind began to hear it, seek it, and want to hold it to ease the raging storm within him.

His crimson-blurred sight cleared and before him was Obiwan. They were on their knees, Obiwan’s hands cradling Quigon’s face, long, strong fingers holding his cheeks and wiping away tears Quigon didn’t know he’d shed.

His beautiful Obiwan, that he almost…

Horror filled Quigon and he tried to back away, to get away from Obiwan. Wonderful Obiwan deserved better than a brute like Quigon Jinn, the terror of France and Spain.

But Obiwan wouldn’t let him retreat, following him, still murmuring softly words that Quigon still couldn’t quite comprehend. Finally, the giant Viking war lord collapsed, his rage spent, his horror at his own actions and what he now knew happened to his sweet sister easing, all of it soothed by Obiwan’s gentleness.

“Obiwan,” he croaked with his hoarse voice, “you deserve better than me.”

He dared look up and saw Obiwan give him a crooked smile. “Perhaps, but I think not, Quigon Jinn,” the thrall answered. “Would anyone else let me, a slave, come to them in my own time and in my own way? Or would they do to me what happened to Tahl?”

Quigon’s throat closed and more tears leaked from his eyes. He closed them, weariness from his emotional exertions taking its toll.

There was shuffling and strong arms helped Obiwan lift him and help him stumble to his bed. Someone moved away, there was whispered murmuring near the front, and Quigon dared open his eyes.

Sifo stared at him soberly. “We can’t protect everyone, Quigon,” his friend said in his blunt manner. “You know that as well as I.” Sifo leaned in and muttered, “But we can take revenge.” He leaned back again and gave Quigon a long look. “What set off this rage?”

Quigon thought back. His morning had been wonderful, waking in Obiwan’s arms, and the cheerful exchanges with his neighbors and vassals. What _had_ set him off?

“Chun,” he answered with insight. It began then, when he’d spur of the moment demanded the man’s assistance.

Sifo nodded. “Then stay away from him. I can’t have you go into berserker rages again. You’ve come back from being one of them, and I thank whatever gods for that. If you return…” Sifo’s face darkened. “You know how you were and you know what you asked of me should you ever go back.”

Quigon nodded heavily. He’d asked Sifo to kill him if ever he became a berserker warrior once more. He’d been uncontrollable, killing his own men as much if not more than the enemy. Most of the scars upon his body were earned by his time as a berserker. It took a long time to learn to control those rages and not sink into the near trance-like killing state typical of those warriors.

Obiwan’s face swam into view, asking Sifo to take Tahl home. The thrall then curled up into Quigon’s front, arms encircling his waist and head pillowed on Quigon’s chest.

The long house cleared of his concerned people. Obiwan was unharmed by his fury. Tahl, though abused in the past, was as strong as she ever was. Quigon was not alone and he would never let his people suffer the depredations of those like he once was. This would be a village of peace, trade, and simple living.

Quigon fell into an exhausted slumber, wrapped in his beautiful Obiwan’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bracraut – asshole  
> In case you’re wondering where I’m getting these insults…  
> [How to Curse in Norse](http://housebarra.com/EP/ep04/12norsecurse.html)
> 
> It should also be noted that I randomly made Quigon a former berserker warrior while doing NO research on them at all. My bad. So let's just pretend I did and that I'm sort of accurate, shall we? Thanks!


	13. Chapter 13

The next week was hell for Obiwan. He didn’t want to believe the kind and generous lover Quigon had been festival night was the brute the Viking became the next day. Tahl and Bant reassured him often this was an aberration in Quigon’s behavior but Obiwan never felt more helpless than when Quigon had him pinned to the wall and was heedless of Obiwan’s struggles and protests.

Obiwan slept in the bed Quigon had made for him, falling asleep only when he thought Quigon did so first. The slightest noise woke him, but every time it was one of the dogs or the penned animals. Sleep came slowly each time and by week’s end Obiwan was clumsy with exhaustion and jumpy as a fish on land.

Quigon attempted to make it up to him, being solicitous in manner and lenient when Obiwan did something wrong that would normally have engendered even a mild rebuke. This made Obiwan edgier until Garen told him he was acting like a wild man.

Sunday, by he and Garen’s reckoning, came and went with the two allowed to offer prayers, being the only Christians in the village, and Obiwan begged the Lord Christ and Mother Mary to help him overcome these feelings of mistrust. He somewhat understood that Quigon had overreacted that day and had been jealous, but something niggled in Obiwan’s brain and wouldn’t let him let it go.

What time it was he didn’t know but shouts outside the long house roused him from that night’s sleep. Quigon was shooting out of his bed as if shot from a catapult, throwing on clothing haphazardly. “Up, Obiwan!” he shouted in a panic.

“What’s happening?” Obiwan asked groggily, sitting up and blinking blearily.

“Fire. Come. We have to put it out before the whole village goes to flame.”

“Invaders?” Obiwan half-feared this could be. If the Scots or English came here for revenge raids, he and Garen could be captured again, this time sold to masters less kind.

Quigon didn’t answer. Shoes pulled on, he pounded down the length of the long house, opened the door, and was gone in the blink of an eye. Obiwan dithered a moment. Should he let the animals in the house out? He’d been given no instructions thus, but where was the fire? Deciding the fire’s location would determine his actions regarding the animals, Obiwan finished dressing and was out the front door with equal swiftness.

Flames licked the sky at the far end of the village. The long house and surrounding homes and buildings were burnished orange and gold from it. As Obiwan ran in that direction, he saw three homes were burning, animals milling about in panic, and Quigon was starting to organize a water chain from both wells in the village. Obiwan darted back inside the long house and grabbed the four buckets they used to haul water and feed before joining the line.

Bucket after bucket passed his hands, Obiwan a link in one of the chains taking water to the burning buildings. Children who were old enough ran the empty buckets back to the wells and the rest were sent to the far end of the village out of harm’s way.

Turn, grab a full bucket, turn the other direction, pass it off. Turn, grab a full bucket, turn the other direction, pass it off.

Dawn’s fingers brushed the sky when they put out the last flicker in the nearly destroyed east granary. It didn’t matter, of course, that the granary was mostly intact of the easterly facing side. The other side was demolished. The grain it held was now soaked and in the cold approach of winter, there was no way to dry the kernels. Winter would not stop the mildewed and rotted mush the grain would become. As the grain fed the animals, this was a serious loss for the village and potentially others on the island as well.

Obiwan collapsed on the grass next to Tahl, Bant, and Garen. “Garen, you shouldn’t have been –“ Obiwan started but Garen glared him silent.

“I burn to death just like everyone else,” he retorted tiredly. Obiwan couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t. Instead he asked, “Do we know what started the fires?”

Tahl’s face was grim. “The Chuns have left the village.”

It took Obiwan a moment to understand what she meant and when he did, he gasped. “They set fire to the village when they fled?”

She nodded. “It seems so.”

“Sweet Mary, Mother and Joseph,” breathed Garen on a prayer. “I don’t think anyone was killed, though, were they? Everyone got out safe from the homes that burned?”

Bant fell back onto the brown grass even as she replied, “Everyone accounted for. Uncle Quigon, Sifo, Eeth and one of the Frodeson brothers have gone after the Chuns. As soon as they realized we had everything under control about an hour ago, they went off.”

Obiwan’s stomach clenched and he felt very uneasy. If the Chuns could set fire to the village in the dead of night and leave while everything burned behind them, what further treachery could they attempt?

“I’m sure they will catch these vermin,” Obiwan said staunchly, to dampen his own unease as well as Tahl, Bant and Garen’s.

“Catching them won’t bring back the grain stores,” Garen noted. “We’ll have to forgo our own shares of the grain stored for us to feed the animals.”

Obiwan glanced at her in surprise when Tahl responded with, “Ulf Frodeson and some of the others from his side of the island came to help once word reached them. He said they have a bit of extra that they can share with us. We will send out envoys to the other islands for assistance as well. It won’t be the abundance we had planned on but neither will we starve.”

Bant’s response to her mother’s pronouncement was a teasing, “Ulf Frodeson said, eh?”

Obiwan couldn’t help but chuckle when a very becoming blush reddened Tahl’s cheeks. “Hush, you, or I’ll sell you the first fool who comes along.”

“No, you won’t,” Bant said confidently and then, to Obiwan’s further amusement, shot Garen a look of fluttering eyelashes and a coy smile.

Obiwan’s mouth dropped open, however, when Garen, instead of disdaining Bant’s obvious crush, blushed as well and tried to look unaffected by her admiration.

Eventually, the foursome hauled themselves to their feet and Bant rushed ahead to help start a large cooking fire in the main commons with some of the other women. Various foodstuffs were produced, along with clothes, cloaks and other necessities for those who lost their homes to the blaze. It looked that besides the Chun residence, the homes of Eeth Koth, Yaddle, and an elderly man who had once known Quigon and Tahl’s father were destroyed also. Tahl and Bant took in the old man, Vragi Somerledson, into their home. Sifo’s wife hustled the Koth matriarch and infant son into she and Sifo’s home. Yaddle parked herself in front of Obiwan as he finished a bite of porridge and eyed him expectantly.

“I can’t make that decision,” he told her. “You know that. I’m a thrall.”

She rolled her eyes. “As Jarl, Quigon is honor-bound to take in those that have no homes. I’m all that’s left. You have a cozy but empty bed in that big house of his. I’ll sleep there. You two keep the noise down and we’ll do fine until spring.”

Obiwan opened his mouth to protest then snapped it shut when she gave him a piercing look that said clearly, ‘Don’t argue with me’. “I’m sure Quigon will be honored to provide you with shelter, Mistress Yaddle.”

She snorted. “I’ll consider it payment for your clothes.”

Obiwan blinked. “He didn’t pay you?”

“Of course he did!” she snapped. “But it burned up!”

“Oh.”

She hmphed but was forestalled making further comment regarding the new living arrangements by Sifo and the other two warriors returning. Obiwan expected Quigon to be right behind them, possibly dragging the heads of Sverre Chun and his loathsome sons behind him, but he never appeared.

“Where’s Quigon?” Yaddle called out.

Sifo paused in his greeting of his family and hearing of the new arrangements in his home. The three warriors exchanged glances and then looked away.

“Sifo Dyas!” Yaddle’s tone was fierce and determined. “I am your elder. I asked you a question. Where is our Jarl?”

Sifo faced the village, who as one was staring at him with wide-eyed, curious or apprehensive expressions. “He took a separate boat and has not returned.”

Obiwan was thankful he was sitting, otherwise he would have fallen down. Quigon had not returned. He went alone against a family of four males, possibly five if Bruck joined them, well-versed in hateful skullduggery. Obiwan had no doubts Quigon was an accomplished warrior but four or five against one in who knew what kind of conditions? That could not bode well that Quigon had not returned.

“And you left him behind?” Yaddle’s disapproval was clear.

Sifo’s brown eyes flashed a warning. “Watch it, old woman,” he snapped. “We couldn’t find him nor those pieces of dung, the Chuns, anywhere. We’ll deal with things as they happen.”

_Dear God_ , Obiwan thought in a panic, _if Quigon is killed, what happens to me? Will Sifo take me to a slave market? Who takes over Quigon’s position as head of the village and island?_

Something a bit more alarming clutched his heart. _I didn’t forgive him a momentary lapse of temper,_ he said to himself sorrowfully. _God, please don’t let him pay for my churlishness. Though of heathen bent, he’s a good man. Let him be safe and guide him back to us._

The village went about what needed to be done in the aftermath of such a disaster. The rubble of the now smoking buildings were pulled down using ropes and poles with iron hooks on their ends. Some of the grain in the middle portion of the damaged granary was salvageable, contaminated neither by smoke nor water, and a hastily constructed hut to house it was place near the long house. Animals were taken care of and rations carefully doled out now that they were in thin supply.

By mid-afternoon there was still no sign of Quigon. A soft rain began to fall, dousing the sputtering ashes of former homes and granary, and sending everyone inside their homes to rest. For Obiwan, he also worried.

Yaddle puttered about, opening baskets and pottery containers. She mixed up a stew designed to stick to one’s ribs and badgered Obiwan into eating a full bowl of it. “We’ll leave it near the coals to keep it warm for when the Jarl returns,” she said confidently.

Before he could stop himself, Obiwan blurted out, “What happens if he doesn’t come back?”

Her movements paused and then resumed. “Such negative thinking bears rotten fruit, Obiwan Kenobi,” she reprimanded him lightly.

“In case you haven’t heard, Mistress Yaddle,” he said morosely, staring blindly into the fire, “my life thus far has been not wholly positive.”

A hand on his cheek caused him to look up into her understanding face. “I know, boy, I know. I don’t know much about you Christians, though I’ve met a few in my time. Never paid much mind to their guilt-ridden blathering. It seems that you Christians are bred to think the worst of the world and, indeed, tend to seek out the horrible as if to justify your opinions. It’s a hard life, yes. It isn’t fair, I agree. It is what it is, however, and if you can’t make the best of it, what’s the point? If you continuously seek unhappiness, well, boy, you’re going to always be unhappy. Try it the other way around. You’ll sleep better for it.”

With that, she nagged him into washing off using a small bowl of hot water and some soap slivers of Quigon’s before pointedly directing him to the giant bed that belonged to Jarl Quigon Jinn. Exhausted, tired of always being afraid or wary, Obiwan fell into a deep sleep.

He didn’t hear Yaddle ready herself for bed, nor registered that Bjorn crawled into bed with him, curling up on his feet. He also didn’t hear the door to the long house open and footsteps approach the bed.

* * *

Quigon spent most of the day wavering between rage and frustration. The damned Chuns treachery had placed the entire village in grave danger. That no one was killed was sheer luck more than anything. It was apparent once he and Eeth started nosing around that three fires had been started at the Chuns’ former home, Eeth’s home nearby, and Yaddle’s that was nearest the granary. The evil family’s animals had been brutally killed, including the dogs, all of who’s remains were found in the rubble of the burnt house.

All but two of the navigable boats had large holes smashed into them. Quigon ordered Sifo, Eeth and Arne Frodeson into the bigger, with Arne rowing and Sifo standing at the prow. Quigon took what amounted to a small single-man boat more sized for a child than a big warrior like him. They pushed off the shore and began rowing for the nearest island.

No sign of landed boats on the beaches at the islands near Quigon’s domain appeared. It was as if the Chuns were the demons their personalities made them to be, using magic to disappear just as Bruck had done weeks earlier.

Quigon waved Sifo and the others back, intending to head for his peer noble, Jarl Saesee Tin, for assistance, and to offer a warning. Saesee greeted him warmly, offered him a fine mulled drink to warm his innards and listened to Quigon’s tale with grim disgust. Saesee offered to send out his own men to warn the other islands and the main island of Orkneyjar to beware of the potential vipers in their midst.

“I advise to kill them on sight,” Quigon told his peer with muted ferocity. The two men were walking back to Quigon’s tiny boat. “If Eeth Koth’s sleep had not been troubled, we could have lost his family and many others before we even knew what was happening.”

“Do you want me to send someone to King Einarr?” Saesee asked. “If this Chun has damaged your fleet as well, you’ll have none to spare for such a mission.”

“If you would, my friend,” Quigon said gratefully, “it will be greatly appreciated.”

“Then go. Take care of your people.” Saesee offered a warrior’s grip, which Quigon returned. “Such filth does not bear to live. If they poke their noses from under whatever rocks they have hidden under, we’ll take care of them.”

Quigon accepted Saesee’s kindness of giving him a slightly more navigable craft, lifted the sail in the mid-afternoon breeze, and headed for home. The sun was a dim orange glow on the horizon as he rounded Rousay Island for his village’s beachhead. The seals barked greetings at him and he remembered he had yet to bring Obiwan to see them.

He rowed the rest of the way when the wind died, bringing the boat firmly to shore before dragging it to a brushy area. They needed more than one good boat and, by Odin, if the Chuns were somehow still here, the scum would not damage this one.

Night was full settled and only the innate knowledge of his land kept him from stumbling like a drunk on his way to the village. A few people were still up and crowded around Quigon, thankful of his safety and curious of news. He exhaustedly told everyone there would be a meet in the morning. Now was the time to rest. Sifo told him Yaddle took up residence in the long house. While Quigon knew that might curtail his doings with Obiwan, Yaddle’s care as an elder was more important than his sexual release.

Quigon opened the door and found all quiet within. Nikki and Smoke were curled by Obiwan’s bed now occupied by Yaddle. Jacques was belly-up sprawled by the banked coals of the central hearth. He looked to his bed and found russet-red hair poking out from underneath a mountain of wool blankets and furs, with Bjorn resting comfortably at the foot.

Quigon approached on cat-feet, stripped, washed in tepid water left by the fire, and found still warm stew in the cooking pot. He ate ravenously and ignored the chuckle that came from Yaddle’s bed. After rinsing his dishes and utensils, Quigon stumbled wearily to his large bed, shifted the covers aside so he could slip in, and fell into a dead sleep with his arms around Obiwan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Horace from Carmina, Liber I, XXVIII meaning "But one night waits for all and the road of death is to be tread only once." I couldn’t find any Viking saga quotes that fit the circumstances. Roman will have to do


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four short and sweet moments in time and daily life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told all of you commenters I hadn't abandoned the fic! LOL! See end notes for more info on what's going on.

A week after the fire found serviceable homes going up. The Koth family was first as they were the most pressing. Eeth had a large family, four boys and two girls, as well as his aged mother. Scarred from battle, one eye missing, Eeth always reminded Quigon of a youthful Odin. All that was missing was the grizzled beard and ravens on his shoulders.

Obiwan helped with everyone else, cutting down trees, shaping rough-hewn boards, and stacking stone on the cleared area that the Koth home once stood. Some of the heartier women helped as well, but Tahl, Adi, Yaddle and Bant kept everyone fed. Quigon never asked where the food came from and was only grateful it was in supply, hot and filling.

Nights found both he and Obiwan dead asleep before their heads hit furred pillows. Quigon knew it was the same for the rest of the village workers as well. The work load had increased exponentially overnight, with the fire, its damage and the repairs of such on top of the usual chores.

Yaddle’s home had to wait until the heavy winter rains finished and the ground allowed to dry somewhat. Through the long winter nights until Yule, Quigon and Obiwan had a helpful, if sly, guest in their home. Yaddle made herself useful and could be snoring peacefully before either man was ready for slumber themselves.

Quigon was quick to take advantage. Some of it was childish fumblings, others it was drawn out lovemaking and keeping Obiwan from being too vocal. It never worked, for Yaddle’s sly digs at them at the dawn told them as much. She seemed little bothered by it, though Quigon was amused that Obiwan always blushed a becoming pink when she mentioned her ‘disturbed slumber’.

To Quigon’s satisfaction, their relationship deepened. Obiwan was his partner in Quigon’s mind and around the village they were “Quigon and Obiwan”. While all were mindful of Obiwan’s status as thrall it was foregone that Obiwan and Quigon were content with each other. Quigon was gratified that the words ‘us’ and ‘we’ fell from Obiwan’s lips with ease born of familiarity and contentment.

Because the gods knew Quigon knew great joy in the love he was finding himself bearing for his beautiful Obiwan. He wasn’t the only one in the family showing signs of lovesickness either, Tahl confided to Quigon one afternoon.

“Bant is much taken with Garen,” she told him, as they scattered seed on the ground for the fowl.

“I noticed,” Quigon approved. Better Bant than Obiwan.

“I wish permission to free Garen at winter’s end,” she said with formality.

“Granted. I hope he remains a member of the village,” he noted to her. “He is most welcome, let him know.”

She paused a moment and Quigon looked up, sensing there was more. “I think he will ask for Bant’s hand in marriage,” she added.

Quigon couldn’t help the broad grin, joy sparking within him. “Even better news. Bant’s regard is returned. She is a fine young woman and will make him a fine wife.”

Again there was hesitation. “She wishes to train as a shield maiden.”

Quigon’s pleasure subsided and he considered the matter carefully. Shield maidens were warrior women and Quigon personally had no issues with their role, he wasn’t that sure about Garen’s opinion on the matter.

“That will need further discussion,” he decided. Tahl opened her mouth to argue and he stated hastily, “Garen may not approve. He’s Christian, Tahl. Christian women do not raise arms, they raise babies. They have no rights and must do as their husband tells them. Garen may be uncomfortable or downright negative regarding her aspirations of glory.” When Tahl’s face remained stubborn, Quigon chided her, “His ways are not ours, as you have pointed out numerous times. He may talk her into converting to Christianity, to which the point would be moot.”

Tahl’s expression turned mulish but she nodded. “Yes. I see. I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t like it, but I hadn’t thought of it.”

“If you think Christians odd, wait until you meet a Moor,” Quigon told her cheerfully, tossing a last handful of grain down for clucking and honking birds.

* * *

It was past the New Year by Obiwan’s reckoning, the wind biting but the skies clear when Quigon approached him. “Come,” Quigon beckoned and Obiwan obligingly stood up and set aside his mending of reigns for the plow horses.

Quigon waited with infinite patience as Obiwan bundled up as much as was humanly possible and then led the way out of the long house, through the village, and toward the coastline. Both Obiwan and Quigon returned greetings from villagers out and about as they walked and Obiwan waved at the fisherman coming to shore with a catch. The boats destroyed by the Chuns during the mayhem of the fire had been crudely repaired.

“Where are we going?” Obiwan asked, enjoying being outside despite the briskness in the air.

“You wanted to see the seals up close, so I’m taking you to them,” Quigon replied.

“Oh!” Obiwan couldn’t help the smile creasing his face and skipped to catch up to Quigon’s long stride. He slipped his smaller hand into Quigon’s massive paw and squeezed.

Quigon glanced at their clasped hands and gave Obiwan a soft look that held a tiny bit of heat. Thus joined, they made their way across the rough terrain, down a cliffside path to the black sand shoreline.

Obiwan marveled at the creativity of God’s mind. The seals were as he remembered seeing them when he first came to Rousay Island. Mottled in colors of gray, black and white, they flopped about in an ungainly manner on land, but he could see some of them in the water, graceful as the fish they undoubtedly hunted.

“So wondrous,” he breathed.

“Not bad to eat, either,” remarked Quigon. “I’ve asked that we hunt them only when there are no other alternatives, though. They are all around the north here, even in the land I came from.”

Obiwan tilted his head in thought. “They are the animal on your shield,” he realized.

“Crudely drawn, yes, but a seal nonetheless,” Quigon confirmed. “I have an affinity for them.”

Obiwan gave him a skeptical look. Quigon laughed.

“Watch.”

Obiwan did so with held breath and Quigon confidently walked among the creatures who barked and grunted at him but made no aggressive movements. Quigon plopped down on his rather shapely butt and several seals made for him. Obiwan tensed but soon realized there was nothing to worry about. Quigon merely patted the animals on their heads and began to hum a song that Obiwan had heard sung with rousing fervor during drunken evening revels.

Obviously, the seals were not put off by a lewd song.

With some hesitation, Obiwan made his way to Quigon’s side, flinching when a seal barked rudely at him. Quigon unceremoniously pulled Obiwan down next to him and the two watched seals and the shoreline. Obiwan settled his fur and wool cape closer about him and tipped his head to rest on Quigon’s shoulder.

“It’s nice here,” he finally said.

“Indeed,” Quigon replied. “It’s why I stayed here when I followed Tahl and her husband to this island.”

“Her husband sounds like he was a good man,” Obiwan commented.

“The best but accidents do happen.” Quigon seemed to have something on his mind, from his distant expression and Obiwan let him stew. He’d learned that Quigon would come around to whatever was bothering him eventually.

“Do you want to be free?”

The question when it came took Obiwan by surprise.

“Yes.”

“We have become lovers. We will not be able to remain so if I free you.”

Obiwan considered that. “Do you plan on freeing me anytime soon?”

Here Quigon hesitated. “At or after the Alϸing.”

Obiwan nodded. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he decided.

Quigon gave a booming laugh that disturbed some of the nearby seals who’d settled into a lazy doze. “Philosophical, that’s my Obiwan,” he chortled, putting his arm around Obiwan to share warmth.

* * *

Spring thawed the earth, though the North Atlantic gave the islands one last blast of cold air before surrendering. Fields began to be plowed and early spring seeds sown. All worked, from thrall to freeman to jarl. Like the harvests, it was an island-wide activity, as all depended on the others. Though Rousay was large, it wasn’t the largest, and working from sun up to sundown once more quickly exhausted people who’d been somewhat lazy during the wintering months.

Pings were held as well, excluding thralls, to organize who would go and who would remain for the Alping in mid-spring. Quigon returned from one in a towering rage and it took Obiwan some time to settle the giant brute down.

“It seems,” Quigon rumbled over sliced beef and early spring berries, “that the Chuns have been located.”

Obiwan paused his chewing and looked askance at Quigon.

“They washed up, literally it seems, on the shores of Norway and headed straight for cousins who have some clout with Einarr’s court. Word was sent out for witnesses to testify before my king regarding the stories they tell versus what I will rebut.”

Obiwan’s face darkened and Quigon hastened to add, “No, you cannot testify. This does change who will go to the Alϸing and who remains, however. Yaddle has requested to attend and I am convinced that I can get Garen’s testimony regarded as well.”

“He’s a thrall,” Obiwan reminded him.

“He won’t be for long. Tahl will free him. I will give him gold to pay for his complete freedom. He has asked Tahl and myself for Bant’s hand.”

Obiwan’s face burst into a smile as bright as sunshine. “That’s wonderful, Quigon! Garen will make Bant a fine husband and a loyal man to you.”

“I think so too.” Quigon looked at Obiwan, who was still smiling. “No resentment for Garen’s good fortune?”

Obiwan’s expression turned sly as his quick fingers delved underneath Quigon’s tunic and found his length. “Oh, I’m quite content with my lot in life at the moment, my lord,” the younger man purred coyly. “Perhaps you should take me to bed so I can prove my,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “loyalty.”

Once Yaddle had been settled in her new home, Quigon and Obiwan had consummated their relationship with so much noise there was ribald laughter at them both the next morning. Obiwan hadn’t gotten much quieter, Quigon reflected as he surged inside Obiwan’s tight heat, both of them slicked with recently replenished olive oil.

“By all your gods, Quigon,” moaned Obiwan, thrashing his head slightly, “so good, so damned good.”

Quigon set the rhythm and had both of them shouting their release in no time. He pulled out of Obiwan with some regret and collapsed next to the insensate young man. Quigon cleaned them both with a rag he’d put out for just a reason and pulled Obiwan close.

“I love you so much,” he whispered in Obiwan’s ear. Obiwan’s ‘mmmm’ of agreement warmed Quigon’s heart. He just wished his head would stop seeing awful things on the horizon.

* * *

Góublót fast approached and soon ships from other islands were coming by or loaned to Rousay’s residents to take them to the Alϸing called by King Einarr. Obiwan loaded he and Quigon’s things one armful at a time. Garen helped when he wasn’t dragging around Tahl, his and Bant’s things aboard too.

Quigon’s tent was large and ostentatious as befitted his status as a Jarl. Obiwan had seen it set up a couple weeks ago when Quigon ordered it to be aired out and then refolded with sweet smelling herbs and flower blossoms to chase away the staleness in the fabric. Blue as his eyes with gold and silver trim, the wool tent was finely crafted. Quigon’s bed was loaded as well, though Obiwan was conflicted on whether that was a good thing or not. He had fond memories of the bed and thought it in a tent would be odd.

Comfortable but odd.

Quigon’s high chair as well as Obiwan’s matching cushion now placed regularly at local ϸings and feasts were placed on the great dragon ship as well. Trunks of clothes for both of them were loaded next.

Quigon stepped aboard and the rowers began to move the ship from shore. Obiwan watched as the seals barked and moaned farewells at them. Five dragon ships became a dozen, then two dozen and then more.

All heading north.

As Obiwan’s eyes drifted toward the northern horizon he felt a chill skitter down his spine and he shivered. Quigon looked down questioningly at him.

“It’s nothing,” he reassured the big man. Quigon smiled easily at him.

“I cannot wait to introduce you to Einarr. He will find you are remarkable as I do,” Quigon boasted.

“He won’t try to take me from you, will he?” Obiwan fretted.

Quigon shook his head. “Only to have a beautiful youth serve him ale, maybe. He’s quite smitten with his wife and queen, Drifa.”

“Oh good. I don’t feel like being shared.”

Quigon held him tight. “I don’t share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Virgil’s _Georgics_ , meaning “it escapes, irretrievable time”. Yes, I know, more dead Romans instead of dead Viking quotes. I'm trying, I promise!
> 
> Also, a group of QuiObi fans are putting together a fanzine! If you write or create art, we want you! We're also looking for beta readers! Go to [quiobizine.tumblr.com](https://quiobizine.tumblr.com/) for more info! Deadline for submission is St. Patricks Day, March 17, 2021!


	15. Chapter 15

The dragon boats rowed through the wave breaks and crashed onto the shore with mighty shouts from those on the boats and on land. Obiwan immediately scrambled to start hauling he and Quigon’s things ashore. Horse-drawn carts were ready to haul the visitors’ things up the steep hills and over to King Einarr’s lands. Quigon told Obiwan on the trip over that it was a half-day’s journey by horse and cart.

Obiwan was looking forward to seeing the place Quigon came from, seeing more of the people his family descended from. More, anyway, than the Rousay Island villages he’d seen so far. Several wild-looking men look askance at him, with his clean-shaven cheeks and somewhat richer clothes as he hauled things ashore like a common thrall.

“What’s your name?” demanded one bushy-bearded man in a near-belligerent manner as Obiwan lugged Quigon’s trunk of clothes to a cart that already contained the bed and tent crammed between the bed’s legs.

“Obiwan Kenobi,” Obiwan replied tersely. He still had to bring his things ashore. He didn’t have time for chatter.

The man barked a laugh. “What in Thor’s name did you do to earn the name ‘mean little dog’, thrall?”

“Bit a chunk out of a warrior who attempted to manhandle me and spat it over the side of the ship,” Obiwan said with candor.

The man fell silent. At first Obiwan thought it was because of what he said but when he glanced over, he saw that it was because Quigon had come up beside the man and was glaring at him.

“My thrall is busy and, as you heard, not easy prey. Leave him alone,” ordered Quigon. “Or I’ll allow him to demonstrate how he got his name on you as a warning to the rest.”

“Yes, Jarl Yanson,” the man said with a respectful tone.

Quigon grunted in response and turned to Obiwan. “Let him,” he hiked a thumb at the man Obiwan had been talking to, “finish that. Get your things. We’re burning daylight like a candle during one of your masses.”

Obiwan gave a bow of obeisance and hurried to do as he was bid, hearing the man give an exclamation. “He’s a Christian?”

“He’s mine.” Obiwan was warmed by the possessiveness in Quigon’s answer.

He sloshed to the boat and Garen tossed him his heavy satchel of clothes and blankets before climbing out beside Obiwan as they both came to shore. “You done with the women’s things?” Obiwan asked his friend.

Garen gave a grin. “Oh yes. Bant was most appreciative,” Obiwan laughed and began to good-naturedly rib his friend about his upcoming nuptials. Tahl planned on asking the king to oversee the wedding. Obiwan wasn’t sure who was more nervous, Bant or Garen, over the idea.

The carts lurched forward, Quigon sitting with the driver while Obiwan perched on the trunk in the back. It wasn’t comfortable but, as Quigon unhappily advised the night before curled up between benches and the night sky illuminated with stars, appearances had to be maintained and Obiwan was still a thrall, no matter Quigon’s intentions to free him.

A drizzling rain started up about halfway through the trip and Quigon harangued Obiwan into covering with a sealskin tarp to remain dry. When the driver inquired why it mattered, all Quigon would say is, “He has a delicate constitution.” Obiwan had flushed at that. It wasn’t entirely incorrect.

The carts rolled on.

It was late afternoon when the horizon revealed tents going up or already up, a wide array of color and sizes, some with banners and flags, others covered in furs and hides. Beyond the tent city rose a huge palisade of stone and wood, no doubt housing the home of King Einarr and his household.

Obiwan had never seen a noble, or king’s, home before beyond that which Quigon lived and was curious to what it would look like. Knowing his curiosity would not be satisfied anytime soon, when the cart came to a shuddering halt, he leaped from his perch and began to haul the rolled tent from the cart. Wooden stakes, posts and frame came next. Quigon disembarked and helped his thrall unload the items and put up the tent.

A few people seemed disconcerted to see Quigon doing manual labor as Jarl, if the mutterings Obiwan overheard were anything to go by. Quigon was unconcerned, however, and the tent was soon up, the standard of his seal banner blowing in the breeze from a pole staked before the door.

The tent was round in shape, with a high-domed top to accommodate Quigon’s height. Obiwan and Garen hauled in Quigon’s bed and Garen ducked out while Obiwan made it up quickly, loading it with blankets and furs as befitted a man of Quigon’s status. A table and two chairs appeared from where Obiwan knew not, along with a sideboard with mead, ale, bread and cheese. It was all brought in by servants Obiwan didn’t recognize and who gave him nods of acknowledgement.

Quigon entered the tent about a half an hour later, looking about with satisfaction. “Einarr commands me to his dinner table tonight, Obiwan,” he said softly, brushing a hand through Obiwan’s red-gold hair, tugging on a strand as his fingers reached the ends.

“I can eat bread and cheese and be okay,” Obiwan assured him.

“No, I want him to meet you. You will attend me as my personal servant. It’s a formal meeting, not a business one. To greet his honored guests. Business will wait for tomorrow.”

Obiwan gave Quigon a cocky grin. “Do you drink and get amorous this evening?”

Quigon returned the smile with a wicked one of his own. “Perhaps,” was all he would allow.

Both men cleaned up, another loaned thrall bringing water to wash in. They used Quigon’s soap chips and Obiwan indulged in a favored pastime of washing Quigon’s hair, drying it with a cloth and then putting in the elaborate braids Quigon favored for special events.

Obiwan hesitated over his wardrobe. “Do I wear my velvets?” he fretted.

“No. Not acceptable here. In our village, you have a better reputation. Here you are nothing, more’s the pity. Dress in your other clothes. The velvets,” here Quigon leaned down for a deep, tongue-tangling kiss, “we’ll save if I can free you at the end of Alϸing. I will host a celebration feast in you and Garen’s honor. I will ask Einarr permission for it and ask him to be our honored guest for the celebrations.”

Obiwan looked at Quigon in shock. “You plan to free me here?”

Quigon’s expression turned apprehensive. “Yes. Why does that alarm you?”

Obiwan frowned in return. “You’ve said nothing of it.”

“I wasn’t sure myself, but, honestly, I see you more as my equal every day. It will complicate our sexual relationship,” Quigon added, “but we’ll figure it out. If you wish to continue it.” Again, that apprehension shone though, bright as day.

Obiwan pressed himself against Quigon. “I wish it, yes. We’ll figure it out,” he echoed.

Quigon gave him another hard kiss and set him back. “Dress.” Obiwan obeyed, heart pounding at what Quigon revealed. Ben “Obiwan” Kenobi would be a free man for the first time since he was six years of age. It was a dizzying thought.

Obiwan walked behind Quigon respectfully, both of them looking clean and appropriately attired per their status. Obiwan was gratified and a tad enraged at the admiring looks Quigon garnered from women and men alike. He completely missed that he received the same, some with speculative gazes. The gold and silver rings and beads in Quigon’s hair and beard glinted in the waning mid-spring sun and the rich blue tunic and dark trousers accentuated Quigon’s muscular physique.

They entered a giant hall, filled with laughing men, thralls delivering food and drink, and women, both bawdy and legally wed, adding to the cheerful, uproarious din. There was a hue and cry when Quigon was spotted, hands pounding on his back and shoulders in greeting, his cheeks bussed by tipsy women and a few already drunken men.

A behemoth of a man rose from the central chair, gold, silver, and rare gems making him seem a god-like being as he stalked toward Quigon. Quigon’s face broke into a pleased smile, full and open as Obiwan had rarely seen. The two men roared in each other’s faces such loud greetings that Obiwan wanted to cover his ears to block the noise.

“Quigon, you bastard son of whore!” Obiwan assumed this was Einarr. The king of the Norsemen was blond, with sky-blue eyes, hair shaved on the sides to reveal green-blue tattoos in a pagan tribal pattern and runic script and running in a long braid at the back. Rings flashed on his fingers and single gold hoop hung from his right ear.

“My mother did nothing to attain such insult!” Quigon roared back, punching his liege lord in the shoulder.

“Regardless,” laughed the king, all but dragging Quigon over to a chair sitting vacant next to the king’s throne. “Drifa, my love! This is Quigon Yanson, known to the Muslims as Jinn.”

Obiwan looked upon the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. As dark as her husband was fair, Queen Drifa rose to height that was taller than Obiwan still much shorter than her husband. Dark eyes framed by lashes as dark as her hair were sharp and shrewd, but her smile on rose-pink lips was warm and welcoming.

“Quigon,” she greeted, holding out her hands. Quigon took them in his own and kissed her knuckles. “Einarr tells me much of your daring exploits to the point I fear he makes them up to make you sound much more fearsome than you are.”

“You are likely correct, my queen,” Quigon said with a smile. He nudged the king in the ribs. “He thinks near raising me gives him liberties.”

She gave a musical laugh and gestured for Quigon to sit between her husband and herself, a great honor, Obiwan knew. “I would know you better. Your sister, Tahl, and her lovely daughter are here as well?”

“Tahl was tired from the journey. She does not handle the sea well.” Quigon made his sister’s excuses as they had discussed. It was exactly untrue. Tahl had been very seasick on the trip. “And her daughter, Bant, wishes to formally request from you and my king that she be allowed to marry here at the Alϸing.”

Drifa clasped her hands together joyfully. “Oh wonderful! A wedding! To who? A great warrior?”

Quigon shifted a bit uncomfortably and Obiwan knew why. Bant was taking a step down in social status to marry Garen. “A freedman, my lady,” Quigon stated and Einarr frowned, which caused Obiwan to tense as he took position between the queen and Quigon’s chair. “A noble youth, much abused by his former masters, but he healed well, with grace and charm. I fear my niece fell quite in love with him. Tahl freed Garen Muln before we left and Bant will make her formal request to you tomorrow, if you are agreeable.”

“A former thrall,” mused Einarr. “You approve of this match, Quigon?”

“Very much so,” Quigon turned to his king with a reassuring smile on his face. “Inspect the young man, if you so desire, Einarr. I assure you that you will not find Muln wanting. He will make my niece a most happy and loving helpmate.”

“And what of you, Quigon?” asked Einarr, taking a drinking horn from a thrall, who gave Obiwan a glance of askance. Obiwan flushed, realizing he should have been doing that for Quigon. He turned, saw a batch of drinking horns near an ale cask, filled in and returned to Quigon’s side in time to catch, “…need to be married for your own heir soon enough.”

“In time, perhaps.” Quigon’s tone was non-committal. Obiwan saw Quigon lean in and whisper something to the king, whose eyes immediately darted to Obiwan. Obiwan stood up straighter and tried to look appropriately respectful and attentive.

“Indeed?” was all Einarr would say, still giving Obiwan a discerning eye. “Speaking of which, we have much to discuss, but not at this moment.” Einarr stood up, horn raised aloft in a toasting gesture. “Friends, lords, and ladies, welcome to my hall!” There was a roar of cheers, hoots and hollers in response. “Drink, eat, indulge. Tonight, we celebrate being Viking! Tomorrow is for more weighty matters.”

There was another barrage of sound from those assembled and the merriment began. Obiwan spent the evening fetching food, refilling Quigon and occasionally the queen’s drinks, and wiping up messes. Other thralls gave him sympathetic or curious looks, but none had time for conversation or introductions, just instructions to each other to fill this or that for that or this guest.

By the time Einarr and his queen left the drunken revelry, Obiwan was ready for Quigon to do the same. He was so exhausted he wasn’t sure he could indulge Quigon in a sexual interlude without falling asleep in the middle of it. Waiting hand and foot on his master was more exhausting than fishing for three hours or harvesting wheat for eight.

* * *

Quigon drank and was merry as instructed but something weighed heavily on him. The look Einarr gave him when he pointed out Obiwan and his role in Quigon’s life did not bode well. His liege lord was up to something, or something was afoot, and it likely would not bode well for Quigon.

Still he enjoyed himself, seeing friends not seen in many seasons, singing songs, telling stories one more outrageous than the previous, and shouting out ribald jokes that occasionally had his Christian thrall blushing a becoming red.

Before Einarr and Drifa left the festivities, Einarr leaned into Quigon and murmured, “Have morning meal with us, Quigon. Leave this Obiwan in your tent.”

Einarr then did something he’d never done before, causing the assembly to die down in shock for a moment before agreeing with a cheer. “I’m to bed with my lovely wife!” he roared. “Quigon stands in my place. Eat, drink, and stumble to your beds of your own accord. I’m an honorably married man now!”

His king, in a stroke, had handed off the welcome feast to his adopted son, essentially making Quigon second to the king and queen during the festivities. Quigon’s eyes scanned the group but saw none who seemed disapproving. Or obviously so, anyway.

As the late evening turned to early morning, Quigon kept an eye on the revelers. And Obiwan. Two men specifically were paying Obiwan extra attention. Obiwan was nimbly dodging their pawing hands but he also kept their tankards filled. Likely Obiwan thought nothing of the circumstances, which made Quigon berate himself for not learning more of Obiwan’s life before becoming his thrall. Still Quigon didn’t know the men and he didn’t like their potential intentions toward his Obiwan.

Men and women drifted off in pairs or singles and dawn was barely cresting the horizon when the two exhausted Rousay men made their way back to the tent. Obiwan was dead on his feet and swaying in place as he tried to help Quigon out of his finery. Finally, Quigon just pushed Obiwan onto the giant bed they’d brought from the island, allowing the younger man to snore his way into oblivion.

Quigon, for his part, was too keyed up with his upcoming audience with Einarr and Drifa to do more than take a quick cat nap. He rinsed himself off, dressed in his other velvets, rebraided his hair in the dim looking glass, and left the tent after brushing a kiss on Obiwan’s forehead. The lad was still dead to the world.

Quigon stepped out into the bustling, temporary tent city, stopping to check in on Tahl, who was looking better and much rested. “Garen, watch Obiwan,” he told the former thrall, who nodded. “I don’t know what but something is amiss.”

“Yes, lord,” Garen replied nervously.

“Bant, I find out this morning when you can offer you and Garen’s petition to marry and if Einarr himself will do the ceremony as you wish.” Bant dimpled at him.

Quigon then headed back to the king’s hall. Servants were cleaning up the mess in the main area and one directed Quigon back to the private chambers. He knocked politely on the door he was directed to and Drifa’s voice called for him to enter.

She carried around an infant swaddled in blankets, crooning a lullaby that all mothers knew and Quigon remembered his own mother singing to Tahl. He smiled. “I see you have given our king the family he has always wanted, my lady.”

She smiled back. “A girl this time, a boy the next, I assure you.”

“A girl is a fine thing too,” countered Quigon.

“More easily spoiled than a boy,” laughed Einarr from his place at a small table in the corner. “The revelry ran late last night. Did you sleep at all?”

“But an hour. I’ll sleep more after morning meal.”

“First food, then talk,” ordered Drifa, handing the baby off to a servant. “I’ll not have Quigon say I didn’t feed him properly when he faints on his way back to his tent.”

“Quigon would never be so churlish, my love,” argued Einarr with a wink at Quigon then his wife.  
  


“Tahl would argue that,” laughed Quigon, sitting at the spot indicated by Drifa. She passed around salted venison, bread, cheese and warm mulled cider that had the bitter ring of being brewed late in the season and sitting over the long winter.

The talk was catching Einarr up to speed on Quigon’s life and vice versa while Drifa patiently waited on the men. It made Quigon a bit uncomfortable to have his queen do so but she didn’t appear discontented so he kept his discomfort to himself. Once the meal was finished, Einarr sat back in his chair and patted his belly contentedly.

“Tell me of this Obiwan,” invited Einarr.

Quigon did, starting with fighting the youth in Albia, taking him prisoner, his standing up to Bruck Chun, and how Quigon had wanted him from the beginning. He waxed somewhat poetic about how well Obiwan integrated himself into village life, becoming a staple of work and play with his social betters, and his befriending of Garen Muln.

Einarr tapped a forefinger on the table while Drifa looked bemused. “I do not know you well, Quigon,” Drifa said, “despite how Einarr talks of you constantly, but I see that you are most smitten with this young Obiwan.”

“I am,” confessed Quigon. “He makes me feel twenty years younger than I am. He is a strong man, proud, fierce, and honorable. I know men with men isn’t the normal thing but Einarr has always known of my proclivities and not tried to chastise me too much about them.” Quigon darted a glance at his liege lord, whose frown was distant and perturbed. “I am happy. Well and truly happy.”

“That is unfortunate.” Einarr’s declaration made Quigon’s heart drop into his stomach. “I have matched you and you are to marry in two days.”

“Oh Einarr, no,” protested Drifa.

“Shmi needs someone, Drifa,” argued Einarr and turned to a shocked Quigon. “Shmi, called the Skywalker as she is a dream seer, is a recent widow of great wealth. Her husband you’ve never met, Quigon, Osvald, son of Thorvald. He died defending me last season during the attacks by the Sami. They’ve grown bold but that’s another matter.”

“My king, I—” Quigon began but subsided when Einarr raised an imperious hand.

“This is my final word. I need someone I can trust, who I know will handle her honorably, Quigon. Her gift is rare, as you well know. She has a small son, as well, that I need trained and raised with equal honor and respect. There are few I trust as much, it must be you.”

Quigon had no choice but to acquiesce. “Yes, my liege.”

Drifa put her hand on Quigon’s massive paw and squeezed in commiseration. “Shmi is not unfeeling. Indeed, she is most wise and circumspect. Once the two of you lay your boundaries, all will be well.”

“And regarding this Obiwan Kenobi and Garen Muln, there are other matters to discuss.” Einarr fiddled with his dirty eating knife still sitting by his plate. “You state that the Chuns were brutal, fraudulent, and attempted to burn down the village when they left?”

“I do and have brought witnesses of such, including Yaddle and Eeth Koth, who both lost their old homes to the disaster.”

“That is good. Less your word against theirs.”

Quigon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They showed up about two months ago, claiming ill-use by the Rousay villagers, that they were cheated for their work and that you stole their property and gave it to your sister,” Drifa replied.

“Lies!” snarled Quigon.

Einarr raised his hands in a ‘peace friend’ gesture. “I doubted such things, but we haven’t seen each other in several seasons. People change.”

A spike of hurt went through Quigon but he said nothing.

“The claim is that you allowed this Obiwan to injure and besmirched at a ϸing the Chuns and their son, Bruck, specifically. That you stole their slave, Garen Muln, on false charges designed to gain Tahl a slave and deprive them of their rightful property. There was no mention of a fire nor the destruction of homes and grain stores,” Einarr continued.

“All lies and I will foreswear it before an oath taker,” Quigon said staunchly. “As will anyone in my village and from Rousay.”

“That will help your case significantly, for they plan to present their grievances at the council tomorrow.” Einarr gave Quigon a hard look. “I suggest you warn everyone, as the Chuns have a powerful lord for a cousin, one I cannot ignore. However, Kolsgegg is not an unreasonable man. If he sees that his cousins perjure themselves, he will be as harsh as I would, seeing he was taken for a fool in front of his king.”

“It is good that you invited me for morning meal then,” Quigon said drily. “I have much to contemplate and discuss. That does bring up another point. Will Bant’s request to marry Garen Muln be accepted if Garen’s status is in arbitration?”

Einarr considered a moment. “Tell her I will grant her private audience after the matter is argued before me. If it is in your favor, I have no problem granting her request and will ask her for the privilege of officiating if she would like.”

“She would like and it was on her list of things to ask you,” assured Quigon.

Drifa gave a gasp of delight.

“I am not happy that she chooses a freedman to wed but she’s your niece, you know her best. I assume this man is Albian or English? That he is a Christian?” Einarr now looked pensive.

“He is but he has discussed with me that he will not pressure her to join his religion unless they move to a Christian land. This was agreeable to myself, Tahl and Bant.” Quigon shifted his gaze to Drifa as he added belated, “She wishes to train to be a shieldmaiden.”

“Your thoughts on this request?”

“She has little training in fighting, but is a hard worker. I do not know Garen’s opinion on the matter. It will bear further discussion in the family.” Quigon turned to face Einarr. “But you are family in all ways but blood, my king, so she asked me to ask your opinion.”

“You know my opinion on shieldmaidens, but if that is her wish, then I will not deny it.”

Quigon caught Drifa rolling her eyes on the edge of his vision. No doubt she too had caught an earful of Einarr’s discourse against the occupation of shield maiden. Einarr had no problem with women learning martial skills but only for defense of home and village, not raids and going to war.

“I will tell her,” Quigon responded.

Drifa turned the conversation back to where Quigon didn’t want it. “You love this man who is called ‘mean little dog’?”

“I do,” Quigon responded, eyes cast down in humility. “I don’t know how he will react to my being wed. We are rather possessive of each other.”

“I will speak with Shmi, give her warning and see what her opinion on the matter might be.” Drifa patted Quigon’s shoulder as she rose to her feet. “Tell Tahl I wish to meet her this afternoon. I would know my sister-in-law, as you and Einarr are all but blood brothers. Sent the lovely Bant too. I will delight in pestering Tahl and embarrassing Bant with stories of Bant’s childhood so I know what to expect from my own babe.”

“I will do so,” Quigon gave Drifa a small smile as she left the room. “You are disappointed in me,” he added turning back to her husband.

“Not disappointed, Quigon, not the right word. I don’t know what I feel. I am glad you have found happiness, please don’t mistake me, but I wish you hadn’t. It would make everything so much simpler,” sighed Einarr, pouring them both another tankard of cooled cider.

“If you can arrange it, meet with Obiwan,” encouraged Quigon. “See for yourself I speak the truth.”

“He is most beautiful, I will agree, and amiable it seemed last night. He worked hard and offered no complaint,” Einarr nodded. “Even my own thralls have their gripes to offer on occasion.”

“Oh, rest assured,” laughed Quigon. “Obiwan gives me a regular earful.”

Einarr laughed. “Sounds like a fine young man for you, then. Keeps you on your toes, I assume.”

“Very much so. He disapproves of animals in the long house.”

“He wouldn’t say that the first time he loses them all to a cold snap up here!” chuckled Einarr.

“I told him that, but it’s fairly mild on Rousay and where he comes from. I don’t think he believed me.”

Einarr grunted.

“Einarr,” Quigon ventured, “what aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ve given you more than I should, to be honest, Quigon, but I couldn’t let these men blindside you with a sudden accusation and no way to defend yourself. I know you. I’ve known you since I was 22 and you were 17. I knew none of these things they claimed could be true, but there was always a chance. Always. I have to let this play out.”

Quigon nodded and Einarr gave a crooked grin. “With luck, they’ll work themselves into an unbecoming snit and that’ll be the end of it.”

“We can only hope,” Quigon said, taking a long draw of his cider. “And my wife-to-be?”

“Treat her with honor and she’ll do the same for you. Who knows? You might get a son out of it.”

“You said she has a son already?”

“Anakin.”

“Unusual name.”

“Unusual boy. A bit canny, that way, for all that he’s about eight or nine. Smart as they come and fiercely protective of his mother. He’ll not let you get away with much.”

That, Quigon figured, was about as much warning as a man deserved to get in such situations.

Obiwan was going to be livid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Latin for the chapter is "Praemonitus, praemunitus".


End file.
